


Every Longitude Leads

by Acephalous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Polyamory, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acephalous/pseuds/Acephalous
Summary: Sophia, Francis and James do their utmost to be a thorn in the Admiralty's side.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar (background), Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 29
Kudos: 57
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	Every Longitude Leads

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful art for this fic is by the very talented [ mcclintock](https://mcclintock.tumblr.com/). The art is embedded throughout the fic, and you can also find it [ here](https://mcclintock.tumblr.com/post/627729748774256640/every-longitude-leads-by-acephalous-with) and [ here](https://mcclintock.tumblr.com/post/627724786672566272/my-illustrations-for-every-longitude-leads-an).
> 
> Many thanks to Jolly_utter for the beta help with this, it is not an exaggeration to say she is the only reason this fic got finished.
> 
> Much appreciation also to Signe_chan (who I got to work with thanks to a winning bid in this year's Fandom Trumps Hate auction) for really helping me get the plot for this working order.

Sophia winces as her knife clinks against her plate as she sets her cutlery aside. The sound is loud in the dreary silence of the dining room. In the months since her uncle’s memorial service the silence has become normal in the residence she shares with her aunt. Her aunt, severe in her mourning black, looks at her briefly, then returns her attention grimly to her breakfast. Sophia endures the silence for a while longer, before broaching the subject she has been avoiding.

“Have you decided about attending the Admiralty celebration?”

Her aunt pauses with her fork partway to her mouth. Her lips purse at the mention of the celebration of the Expedition. Sets the fork down on her plate. “We can hardly avoid an appearance. Besides someone should remind Sir John Barrow that it shouldn’t all be a celebration, no matter how he’d like it to appear so.” Her voice wobbles briefly on the last sentence, but she controls herself quickly, lips pursed back into the calm mask she has been wearing since Sir James Ross returned with the expedition survivors, and her husband not among them.

Sophia nods silently. She carefully keeps her own face still, to hide her dread the thought of attending the event. It’s painful to think of all those fools who had to be all but forced by her aunt’s dogged campaigning to provide any sort of rescue mission, congratulating themselves on Sir James Ross’s success, as though they had anything to do with it. In her lap, Sophia clenches and unclenches her hands, then lays them flat in an effort to force herself calm.

“More letters came in this morning’s post,” her aunt continues. “I don’t think I can quite bear to look at them today, but I do hate the thought of missing something important. Can you sort through them? See if there is anyone I must respond to?”

Sophia, nods, eager at the prospect of something productive. “Of course, Auntie, I’ll see to it now.”

The sitting room has long been repurposed as an office, the headquarters of Lady Jane’s rescue mission. There are boxes and boxes here, all neatly sorted, and piled on top of elegant wing-chairs and ornate side tables. There are piles of letters and pamphlets, and carefully kept accounting ledgers of funds raised, all sitting in dust and silence in a space that used to be a flurry of frantic, focused activity.

Sophia goes to the desk where the mail has been left in a neat stack, and rapidly sorts them into piles based on their likely importance. It’s only a handful of letters, and the process feels a little silly now when she seems to have nothing but time, but it’s an old habitat from the height of their desperate fundraising efforts, when the volume of correspondence had constantly teetered on the edge of utterly unmanageable.

Since the survivors returned to England, and news of her uncle’s death had circulated, the letters have been a confused mix of congratulations and condolences, and today’s post is no different: mostly poorly concealed attempts at nosing after gossip about the more scurrilous rumours of what had happened on the expedition. There is a single letter her aunt will want to see, from Mr. Dickens, and she sets it aside for her. For the remainder of the correspondence she picks up a pen and writes some carefully polite but utterly dull responses. She hopes it satisfies the gossips not at all. She finishes the last letter, blots it dry, addresses the envelope, and seals it shut.

There is nothing more to do, and it is barely half past nine. She sits at the desk for a while longer, hoping some important task will occur to her, but nothing is forthcoming. She picks up the letter opener, turns it towards the morning light streaming through the large windows. She twists the blade towards the light, letting the sun reflect off the metal. She shines it so the light shines back in her own eyes, once, and then again, and sets it down with a sigh. Rising to her feet, she carefully aligns the boxes, which are already perfectly placed. When she can no longer convince herself that it is a task that needs to be done, she lets her feet take her out of the office, and down the hall to her own room.

She knows that she used to have hobbies that kept her occupied. But the intensity of flurried activity over the last year, raising money, organizing, and trying to keep hope alive seems to have robbed her of her ability distract her mind with the tasks that used to entertain her. Idly she picks up a book, her bookmark in in the pages where she had left it since 1847. Sophia opens the book to the marked page, reads a few sentences inattentively, and puts the book back. Opens the chest where she keeps her needlework, equally neglected all this time. She picks up the piece, and looks at the bright thread along the line of flowers. Works a few stitches, then a few more. Realizes she’s made a mistake in the pattern that will need to be unpicked. In a brief surge of rage, she starts to her feet and throws it against the wall, feeling a moment of relief, then shame at her own childishness. She forces herself to take a breath, then picks it up off the floor, smooths the fabric carefully, and returns it the box. She seats herself again, and follows the pattern of the wallpaper with her eyes for a while. Wishes she had something to put her mind to.

***

James sits in his foster-brother’s drawing room and stares out the frosted window, as Will and his wife Elizabeth sit in silence. James knows that objectively, the room is warm, the fire stoked, no draft to be felt. The ice on the glass of the windows and the light dusting of snow in the garden chills him just to see it, and he has to make an effort not to hunch in on himself, and shiver where he sits. He turns his face from the glass and watches Will tap a finger against the wood of the side-table, an unconscious tic that forcefully reminds James of his foster-father’s mannerisms when he was approaching a difficult subject. Will has been trying to turn the conversation to something serious all afternoon, and James has been trying to avoid it the whole time. But now James is tired, so he just sits in the quiet, and waits for Will to say his piece.

Finally Will breaks the silence. “I’m sure we can’t imagine the how difficult it is for you, to be back. I know you’ve only returned this spring but forgive me, you don’t seem happy, and that doesn’t seem to be improving. If there is anything we can do for you only have to say the word.”

“You’re welcome to stay with us.” Elizabeth adds, “Wouldn’t being around those who love you help?”

James sighs, but they mean well, and they don’t deserve to hear his darker thoughts about his ability to be happy. He says civilly, “Believe me, it wouldn’t help. I’d be equally dissatisfied anywhere, and you shouldn’t have to put up with my moods.”

Will scoffs, then says, with a hint of hurt in his voice, “We’ll put up with anything for you. You’re family.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.” James makes an effort to speak gently, despite his exhaustion. “I am as content as it is possible for me to be where I am. If anything, sharing a house with Captain Crozier is a relief. Having him near reminds me that our return is not a dream or an illusion. Besides, it hardly matters where I stay for now, I don’t plan on staying for long. Once I have my health back I’ll be back to sea, if I can get a ship.”

Will gives a quick intake of breath, and pales. Elizabeth, whose mouth has drawn into a frown, says, “Surely you’re not thinking about that so soon?”

“It hardly seems soon to me. I scarcely know what to do with myself on shore. I have never felt time drag so slowly” He looks over at Will, who has hunched over in his chair at his words. “Will, are you alright?”

“Are you ever going to stop?” Will asks, voice choked with emotion. “You keep going as far away as you can get. You almost died of disease in the desert, got yourself shot in China, and then went to coldest place imaginable, just so you could almost starve to death. And all for what? Will there ever be adventure or glory enough for you?”

James flinches back the words.

“Enough, Will.” Elizabeth says sharply, then leans forward, lays a hand on James’s arm. “We aren’t angry. We love you and we worry. If you really want to go back to sea and have some other grand adventure, than we wish you nothing but success and safety. But forgive us, we’ve spent so long being afraid for you, we can’t help but hope you’d be here for a while longer this time, or even retire entirely. Surely you’ve earned it. James, is another command really what you want?”

James closes his eyes at the crushing wave of exhaustion her words bring. When he opens them, he gently removes her hand from his arm. “I honestly don’t know what I want. But anything feels preferable to rotting away on shore, so I’m not sure what else to do with myself.”

“Give it time. Let yourself heal. Let yourself rest. Please.” Will says.

James looks at his brother sadly. “If I knew how I would. But I fear there’s nothing that…”

The rest of his words are lost to the ruckus of the children pelting down the stairs. They race to James, who forces himself to plaster a smile on his face. After a moment it morphs into something more real, because he can’t help but be glad to see his niece and nephew.

Will gives him a meaningful look, and says, “Being around those who love you can’t but help.”

***

Francis wakes with a start, disoriented and frantic, until he gradually pieces together that he has woken on the chair in the sitting room. The weak afternoon light seeps into the room below the curtain. He sits up and puts his face into his hands and tries to calm his breathing, aware of the sweat prickling in his hair. He had hoped that sleeping in the afternoon, with the sounds of London seeping into the house, would prevent the nightmares in a way that sleeping in his room at night did not. But of course, that was too much to ask.

The nightmares have been dogging Francis regularly since almost the moment of their rescue, and he has taken to avoiding sleep until his body forces him to it. The constant fog of exhaustion is preferable to his dreams, which have become such crushing, predatory things that he can hardly bear to face them. They leave him like this, sweating, hands shaking, heart ready to pound out of his chest. They’ve become more frequent of late, and he’s glad this one caught him when he was alone in the house, so that James doesn’t have to witness this latest bit of weakness on his part. He knows the distance between their bedrooms isn’t always sufficient to mask any sounds he makes when the night terrors take him, so he has started to try to catch sleep when James is out of the house. James has been low in spirits since their return, and Francis would do a great deal to spare him any additional worry or concern.

When his heart slows a little he makes himself stand, step to the window, and draw the curtains. He stares out across the short walkway onto the street, until he the reality of the London scene settles into his mind. Then he returns to his writing desk. He looks at the letter he had been trying to pen before he had succumbed to his exhaustion and tried to sleep. Another futile effort directed at the unmoving bulk of the Admiralty. He knows it will go nowhere, that there are no words he can write that will ensure pensions for the men returned, or money for the dead men’s families, nor convince them to confirm Jopson’s promotion. Just looking at his insufficient words on the page makes him want to scream. He resists the urge to ball the page up and throw it into the fire. He can do nothing but try, on the desperate hope that it will make a difference somewhere, somehow.

He wonders if his constant letter writing on this subject is making his dreams worse, or simply the realization of how futile it is. That, or the prospect of that God-forsaken celebratory party he has to attend at the Admiralty later in the week. He is convinced that if he has to be cheered and fêted while the damn fools refuse to help his men, he is going to lose his mind. But James has reminded him time and again that they’ll make no friends by alienating the Admiralty, and friends are what are needed to move anything forward. As much as Francis hates the prospect of gritting his teeth through the event, he knows James is right. So he will continue to write the useless letter, and he will attend the party and try not to tear his own hair out or insult anyone important. Or, more likely, hope that James or Ross can keep him from insulting anyone important.

***

Sophia watches the flow of men and women through the room at the Admiralty celebration, the cream of the navy and of society fêting Ross and the remaining commanders of the expedition. There’s the roll of chatter and laughter around them, but an awkward little bubble has formed around her and her aunt. People avoid her aunt’s sharp gaze, and the sight of their mourning black, amid the glitter of medals and epaulettes, and the bright dresses of the other ladies. The other guests step away from them to form a little desert of open space around them.

Perhaps it is not the sight of them, so much as the fact that they had been anything but friendly with this set in their fight for the rescue. They had been vicious, and fought with tooth and nail and everything they had. It had made them no friends, and lost them several. Sir James Ross had greeted them both at the start of the night, but otherwise they have been left mostly to themselves. Sophia keeps close to her aunt, taking pains not to look too closely at the officers in the crowd. Not to search for one particular face among the uniformed men. Her aunt sniffs, as yet another person avoids eye contact while sidling past, pretending not to notice them.

“You’d think we were invisible,” her aunt says, crisply, and not quietly. There’s a little ripple of unease from the people standing closet to them, and several people turn away.

Sophia murmurs, “Auntie, not so loud.”

Her aunt replies, without reducing her volume, “Since they’re all pretending not to see us, they can pretend not to hear us as well.” Her voice is crisp, and clear, but Sophia can hear the wellspring of grief lurking just below the surface.

Sophia searches for something to say that would be remotely comforting, but before she can summon anything to mind, her eyes catch the novel sight of someone emerging out of the cluster of the crowd, and approaching them directly. It’s Captain Fitzjames, his face still too pale and thin, but smiling at them. Sophia notes that he looks much better than the last time she had seen him. At her uncle’s memorial service he had looked hunched in on himself, and exhausted as though the effort of keeping himself upright had been in at the very limits of what he could manage. Now he is back to something a bit more like himself.

“Captain Fitzjames,” her aunt says warmly, the stiff anger melting out her posture and her voice. “Congratulations on the celebration, it’s a well-deserved honour.”

He winces, and leans closer. “It feels wrong to call it a celebration, given everything we lost.”

“It’s a thought that does you credit.” Her aunt smiles back at him, the first genuine one of the evening. She adds briskly, “But the living must move forward. And especially those with their careers to think of. Never too early to be thinking of your next step.”

Sophia takes a quick look at Captain Fitzjames’s face, trying to discern if she should intervene and try to prevent her aunt from offering overbearing advice. But Captain Fitzjames seems relaxed, and happy to take the advice in the spirit of kindness it is intended.

“Well, I must confess I don’t think I will do much until my health has completely returned,” he says good-naturedly.

“Of course, you need to look after yourself. But there’s a lot of good will around you right now, and that won’t last forever. If there are things you want now would be time to push for it. Some new command, perhaps? Or are you thinking of retirement? If that’s the case you really must put together a memoir, while the public has an appetite for it. No time to waste.”

“I’m not sure I should inflict my writing on anyone,” he says, still smiling.

Sophia tunes out her aunt’s reply. She knows she can go in in this sort of vein for quite a while, and she actually seems animated rather than grief stricken, so Sophia lets her feet carry her away from them, to where she can stand by herself. He aunt is very dear to her of course, but it is nice to take a breath away from the orbit of her grief, to relax her focus on being carefully supportive. It feels odd to stand alone at an event like this; not so long ago she would have had an abundance of friends around her, but in the past year she has neglected everything in her life aside from the rescue effort. So she stands by herself, and finds herself doing the thing she has been trying to avoid doing all night, which is look for Francis in the crowd. Her old habit of always being aware of where he is comes back to her quickly, since she catches sight of him almost immediately.

He’s with Sir James Ross, which is no surprise. They’re standing at the edge of the room, and are speaking very intently. She means to look away, she really does, but instead she finds herself watching Francis for a bit. She blames the feeling of relief at the sight of him, alive and well, albeit still looking worn and tired. She missed the sight of him. He looks very handsome in his dress uniform. She is caught in a sudden desperate yearning to hear his voice.

Whatever Sir James is saying to Francis is upsetting him, and she has to quell her old feelings of concern. It’s none of her business, not any more, nor ever again. Francis is saying something more to Sir James, but then Captain Erasmus Walker and a small group of hangers-on approaches them. He is exactly the sort of man designed to get Francis’s back up: well-connected and entirely lacking in natural talent. Unsurprisingly, Francis glares at him with a look of unconcealed distaste and steps away, far too abruptly to be polite. Sophia is distracted by watching the way Sir James smoothly intercepts Captain Walker to prevent him from following Francis. She’s lost sight of Francis in the swirl of people now, which is probably for the best.

She is taken by surprise when Francis emerges from the crowd in front of her. She realizes he’d made for an open bit of the floor in a bid for escape, and judging from the look of trepidation and surprise on his face, hadn’t realized who was occupying it until it was too late to retreat.

They stare at one another for a long agonizing moment. Sophia searches for something to say, mouth dry. “Sir Francis.” She aims to keep her tone level and calm, but realizes the second the words are out of her mouth that she’s missed the mark and come across as stiff and unwelcome.

Francis recoils a little at her tone, then replies stiffly, “Miss Cracroft.”

They stand in silence for another several long moments. Sophia searches for something more to say, but can’t think of anything that isn’t either the worst kind of small talk, the kind they both despise, or something far too forward for two people who are now merely acquaintances. She finally decides that even the worst kind of small talk is better than this awful silence, and gathers herself to offer a platitude about the weather. But Francis starts to say something at the same moment, and they both break off, and then stare at each other wretchedly.

She’s wondering if there’s anything that can salvage the situation when Captain Walker butts in. His little coterie of sycophants titter in his wake. He steps up to them with every evidence of being sure of his welcome, ignoring Sophia and directing all his attention at Francis.

“Sir Francis! I had meant to ask you about your travels. Is it true that you had to put down a mutiny in the middle of the Arctic?” He grins, as though delighted at the prospect.

Sophia starts to step away from the conversation, torn between being entirely grateful for the interruption and not wanting this moment with Francis to end. But then she catches the way Francis tensed at the question.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Francis replies coldly. She can see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffen.

“Oh, surely there’s no need for modesty. It sounds like a real moment of bravery.”

She expects Francis to flare back at him; he’s never been one to hide his temper, but he seems momentarily lost, like old memories are waking. And Sophia has a bright flash of temper instead. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. She has often been angry in recent years: angry at the Admiralty, refusing to see the danger they sent men into; at the other people of London who went on with their lives while somewhere in the Arctic good men were dying by slow painful degrees; at herself, for not doing more, for coming up too short, every action too slow, or too late. She’s always been very good at hiding her anger, but now she can’t think of a single reason to keep herself in check.

“Well I can imagine the idea of what happens in the Discovery Service is very exciting to someone who’s spent all their career in safe waters,” she snaps at him.

He gives her a disdainful look, then says to Francis, “Well, one hardly expects a lady to understand what it is like to have step into a moment of action.”

Francis is still looking lost and in pain, so she seizes on the one bit of gossip she’d heard about the man.

“Well, one hardly expects a man who required his first Lieutenant to run his ship for him in difficult waters to know what a moment of action is like.”

He pales a bit at that. _Good_ , thinks Sophia, still furious.

She raises her voice a little to talk over his sputtering reply. “In fact, it was you who ran the _Felix_ aground in ’42, was it not? I heard you claimed to anyone who would listen that it was the fault of a storm, but all your officers agreed there was nothing but the mildest breeze blowing.”

She had briefly forgotten they had an audience, but she remembers abruptly as one of Captain Walker’s hangers on titters at her latest sally. With an effort, Sophia brings herself back into control, and smiles sweetly at the man, who is red faced and gaping at her like a fish. He draws himself up, inflating his chest, then seems unable to find his words, deflates just as quickly, and withdraws in confusion. She glares at him as he goes. She’s aware she’s been extremely rude, and can’t find it in herself to care.

There’s a moment of tension in the people around them. She registers that Captain Fitzjames has materialized from the crowd at Francis’s side. Hadn’t he been across the room with her aunt a moment ago? He looks between her and the place where Captain Walker has retreated into the crowd, then says to her,

“You really mustn’t blame the man for retreating, Miss Cracroft. It may not seem gallant, but is it not permissible under navy rules when one is hopelessly outmatched?” His words cut the tension in the little crowd around them

But Sophia has eyes only for Francis, who is looking back at her with the start of a smile on his lips. And oh, she missed his smile. She can’t help but smile back, a familiar moment of understanding between them, like something out of their past. Then she sees a familiar shape in black moving through the crowd towards them, and she realizes her aunt is headed through the crowd towards them. She lets her old instincts guide her, gives a quick gesture with her eyes in her aunt’s direction to warn Francis, and then wheels to intercept her, knowing Francis will take the moment to disappear into the crowd.

***

James sits in the cab and listens to the rattle of the of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones. The strain of the party has left him exhausted, tired of putting on a mask of enjoyment at every probing question and unthinking comment. Tired of dealing with all the people who viewed their tragedy as some kind of amusement, or diverting story. He’s weary enough to be content to sit in silence, and watch the streetlight flicker across Francis’ face, a strange play of light and shadow across his beloved profile.

The only thing that had made the party somewhat bearable had been watching Sophia Cracroft light up with fury at that fool Captain Walker. Francis has been decidedly quiet in the journey back, and he has that faint furrow in his brow that suggests he is turning something over in his mind. James suspects he is musing on Miss Cracroft and all that past history between the two of them.

When he can no longer stand the quiet, James tests his theory.

“And you thought that party was going to be awful. It was at least worth attending to see Captain Walker bested. Miss Cracroft is certainly very spirited.”

Francis replies, but without his full attention: “Yes, she’s certainly that.” Then he lapses back into silence. James waits patiently, lets Francis gets his thoughts in order enough to discuss what is on his mind. When Francis finally starts to speak it is not the topic James was expecting.

“I heard from Sir James tonight,” Francis says, “Jopson’s promotion won’t be confirmed. The letter will go out in the next few days.”

The decision isn’t surprising, but James feels his face twist in anger nonetheless, “Those damn fools. I’m sorry to hear it. Well, perhaps we could…”

Francis cuts him off, voice clipped “It won’t do any good. Of course, they were never going to agree. At least I can break the news to Jopson myself, before the official word comes down. Small mercies.”

James holds his silence, rather than make any suggestions of what might still be done. Francis had been going about his approach in a typically straightforward manner, and James had kept out of the maneuvering on Jopson’s promotion. At first it had been necessary because his slow recovery had been two steps forward and one step back, leaving him with little ability or energy to focus on much beyond regaining his health. But it had gradually morphed into avoidance from a sense of personal preservation, after he and Francis had managed to have an enormous row over the whole matter. James had dared to suggest a list of reasons the Admiralty would decline the promotion and had made the mistake of trying to make Francis think of some indirect ways of approaching the matter. Francis had turned on James like he was offering some kind of personal insult, as if approaching the matter any way that wasn’t head on and without any hint of subtlety was somehow undermining Jopson’s credentials. Francis had made several comments about the sort of people who get their commands that way, and James had replied with several cutting remarks he wished he could take back. There had been a cold silence between them for a day, and James had come to the realization that they were not going to agree, and they were too likely to say more they did not mean if the subject was broached again.

James is not surprised at the Admiralty’s refusal, given all that stood against such a promotion, but still, it is a blow. A blow to Francis, of course, who no matter how he had denied it he had been hoping for a better outcome. It will be a blow to Jopson, who deserved better than this, after everything. And it is a blow to the Service too, who are losing out on a very fine officer, for the sake of tradition and inflexibility.

***

The next evening Jopson arrives for his weekly visit. Francis greets him at the door, and gives him an assessing look, as always searching for any sign of returning ill health, relieved when there is none to be seen. Francis had insisted on these weekly dinners since shortly after their return to England, as a way of setting his mind at ease. From how readily Jopson had agreed and kept agreeing Francis suspects that Jopson is equally glad for the company

As has become the pattern in these weekly meals, Jopson greets James with a carefully polite nod as he enters their dining room, and, as always, glances at the meal the housekeeper has set out, and at the room as a whole with the slight hint on his face that he has found the work of the housekeeper and the maid wanting, though Francis is at a loss to know what about it isn’t meeting his standards.

As they sit down to the meal, and Francis lets himself fall into the usual routine of questions that at this point are entirely predictable. He’s planning on breaking the news about the promotion to Jopson, but he’d rather put if off a little, at least until dinner’s done.

“How is your brother enjoying his new position?”

“Well enough sir, the works suits him I think. I think he’d rather be in London, but he could hardly turn the offer down.”

“And you kept warm in this cold spell?” Francis asks attentively.

“Yes sir,” Jopson looks less amused than he usually does with this inevitable line of predictable questions. No doubt his unerring instincts have picked up something of the Francis’s tension. There’s not much point in putting off the inevitable revelation.

“I spoke to Sir James Ross yesterday night.” Francis says, “He had an advance warning about your promotion: it will not be confirmed. You can expect a letter saying as much to arrive shortly.”

If Francis hadn’t known so very well, he doesn’t think he would have been able to catch the emotions that run across Jopson’s face at the news. But he does observe them flicker past before they’re battened down behind a calm façade. Disappointment, hurt, then resignation. Jopson had hoped for the promotion, despite repeatedly insisting he didn’t expect it to come through. Francis feels a surge of sympathy, knows all too well about having that last bit of hope you didn’t know you were still holding onto kicked to nothing by reality.

Jopson looks down at his plate, then says “Thank you, sir, for bringing me the news yourself. I appreciate your efforts.”

Although he hasn’t looked away from Jopson, Francis can feel the barely contained energy that is radiating off of James. It likely means he has some idea that he wants to suggest, and Francis can’t begin to guess at what kind of convoluted plan to wrangle the Admiralty he has engineered. Francis shoots James a quick look, trying to convey _do not_ as strongly as possible, hoping James has the sense to let Jopson have his disappointment without the painful addition of futile hope. James meets his gaze, and gives him a quick nod, subsides back in his chair.

Francis turns back to Jopson and lets some of the anger he feels show through. “The Admiralty are fools. But then we hardly expected any better, would we?”

Jopson smiles at that. It’s small and tired, but real. “Well you’ll always be disappointed if you expect a penguin…”

“…to do anything other than shit.” Francis completes the old joke, which they’ve been sharing back and forth since their days in Antarctica.

Jopson’s smile gets a little stronger. After a moment he says. “I had heard, sir, that Humphry Lloyd has written a new paper on magnetism.”

It’s a clumsy attempt to shift the conversation, but Francis let’s himself be drawn into discussing the Lloyd’s latest work.

Francis had thought that James had understood him on not pressing the topic of the promotion further, but later that evening, as Jopson is gathering his coat to leave, James steps over to bid him farewell, shakes his hand, and says: “I know the news of the promotion is a cruel disappointment. But don’t take this as the end, it’s a set-back and no mistake, but we’ll keep fighting it. I’ve got a bit of pull, we’ll see what we can do.”

Francis is glaring at James, with all the force of indignation he can muster. This seems too much like rubbing salt in the wound, when it will be better in the long run just to let the disappointment sink in.

“Please don’t bother yourself sir,” Jopson replies with a shake of his head.

“Don’t be modest, now’s not the time for that.” James says forcefully.

“It’s not modesty sir. The promotion was a foolish idea, and I’ll do alright without it. In the grand scheme of things it hardly matters. I’m grateful I’m not worse off. I went to visit Henry Peglar the other day. I don’t know if you know, sir, but he’s taken a room down in the East End. I don’t think his health has recovered much, and the money is very tight. But he’s at least staying with John Bridgens, and I think they’re better off than most of the other men.”

Francis feels the guilt twist like a knife in his gut, this reminder of all his failures, the way the Admiralty has been free with the praise for the senior officers upon their return, but with no regard for the men, especially if that regard might cost them anything. They had knighted him and fêted him and the other officers, and celebrated Ross for his daring rescue. But nothing Francis seemed to do, no matter how many letters he wrote, or who he spoke to, seemed to move anyone to do anything for his men. It had been like throwing himself at a wall, a wall that murmured platitudes about how impressed he should be with his knighthood and his newfound fame, as though that should matter to him one whit. He knows that James knows all this, and judging from the frozen look on his face he feels the failure as acutely as Francis himself does.

Jopson says gently, as he finishes pulling on his coat, “If you have some leverage still you might put it towards the other men, sir. I’m fine.” He gives them both fleeting smile, smooths his hair back from his face, then slips out into the night, barely making a sound. Francis and James are left behind, frozen in their own guilt.

They stare at the closed door. Francis sighs, and turns to James, who has clenched his jaw so tightly that Francis’s face aches in sympathy.

“He’s right, you know, about the men.” Francis says. He rubs a hand over his face and waits for James to tell him what he’s said before, that there are better ways to approach the problem, if only Francis were better at playing the sort of political games these things require.

But James just gives him a gentle smile, putting his hand on his arm. A long moment of understanding and support, as they stand together in their front hall. Francis exhales, and gives him a grateful nod, reaching to cover James’s hand with his own. He means it to be a quick press, a reminder that neither of them are alone, but he finds himself lingering on the feel of James’s hand under his. Runs his thumb against the back of James’s hand, without quite meaning to.

***

Sophia takes a breath as she exits the lecture hall. The Royal Society lecture had been staid but diverting, but now that it’s over she stares at the crowd in front of her, and wonders how long until she can decently leave. There’s a hubbub of voices, and people mingling in the foyer of the auditorium, which she can only view with something akin to dread. She had promised herself she would try to find amusement, and be less grey and listless, because she thinks she will drive herself mad if she continues on as she has been. So she had resolved to go out in society, perhaps rekindle some neglected friendships. But here she is, staring at the ebb and flow of chattering people before her and cannot think of anywhere less appealing to be. She doesn’t wish to be the first person to depart, but also this standing on the edge of the crowd is only emphasizing just how alone she feels. She’s startled out of her reverie, by a man approaching her little island of solitude. It’s Francis, in his dress uniform, and he looks incredibly hesitant in his approach, clearly not at all sure of his welcome. She smiles at him, with unguarded sincerity, and he relaxes a trifle, steps a touch closer.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, but I am half an inch from having to have a conversation with Captain Walker. I’m wagering he’s too scared of you to come this way,” Francis says.

From any other man Sophia would assume that was an excuse to speak to her, but not with Francis. And sure enough, when Sophia looks past Francis she sees Captain Walker coming out of the crowd, clearly following Francis. She meets his eyes, letting every bit of anger and disdain she feels show in her face. Captain Walker backpedals, and loses himself in the crowd. Sophia turns her attention back to Francis, who has watched this turn of events with amusement.

“By all means, hide here as long as you like.” Sophia tells him, “No Captain Fitzjames with you today?”

“He had another engagement today.” Francis says, “And I had promised Sir James I would attend.”

“And now Sir James has abandoned you to the horror of a room full of people,” she replies with a smile.

Francis returns the smile, but there’s a reserve in it that she feels deeply, no matter how understandable it is. Because she missed him, so very much, and he’s here and alive and smiling at her. She desperately wants this interaction to continue, knows that she should come out some small joke, so that he stays and talks to her, so that his manner eases further. What comes out of her mouth instead is, “Francis, I’m so very glad to see you again. I have missed you so.” She hears with horror that her voice wobbles on the words.

“Sophy,” Francis says, “I’m always very glad to see you as well, but I didn’t wish to trouble you with my presence.”

“I’m not going to be troubled by you. I am just so glad you are returned and safe.” She would go on, offer him some more honesty. But Sir James Ross emerges from the crowd at that moment, his eyes darting between them, the look he sends her way very sour.

“Francis, old man,” he says heartily, “Edward Sabine is here. He and I were having a fascinating conversation about Lloyd’s latest paper. You really must come and give us your opinion.”

Sophia gives them both a smile. “Don’t let me keep you,” she says to Francis, and makes her retreat.

***

James looks up at the building before him. A narrow, leaning boarding house, poorly kept up, on a dirty crowed street. He wonders if he can possibly have the correct address, and searches around himself, feeling a bit lost. But then there’s a movement at the door, and the familiar face of John Bridgens, smiling and nodding to him, from the doorway of the building.

Since the dinner with Jopson, James had been unable to shake Jopson’s words about his men, and the difficulties they faced. The knowledge that he doesn’t know exactly how things stand with his men gives him the sickening feeling of having been lax in his duty to them. After a sleepless night he had resolved to go see for himself how they are faring. One can’t make a plan of attack without knowing what one faces, after all. So he had sent out a telegram, all but inviting himself to visit Bridgens.

Now here he is, in a downtrodden part of London he’s never visited before, crossing the street to greet John Bridgens. There’s a moment of deep awkwardness between them, the both of them unsure of themselves. The weight of the history between them, of friendship and struggle together across the shale, pushes against that awareness of the old social boundaries, of the gulf between their stations. James can see how Bridgens is drawing himself inward at the awkwardness. But James remembers, dimly, Bridgens caring for him when he fell: helping to bind his wounds, being kind to him, when James thought he was dying, when they all thought hope was lost. So James is quick to extends his hand and grasp Bridgens’s hand, shakes it heartily, grabbing his shoulder with his left hand, not hiding how glad he is to see him.

“It’s such pleasure to see you, Mr. Bridgens. And how is Mr. Peglar?”

That melts Bridgens’ awkwardness away, and he smiles back at James without reservation.

“Much improved, thank you sir.” He replies, and leads James up the stairs. It’s a crooked, steep staircase, leading up to a room at the very top of the house. James finds himself struggling a bit to climb it, an unwelcome reminder of his poor health.

As he opens the door, Bridgens says, “It’s not much I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse.” James replies cheerfully, though it is very patently not very much, a small, close room. It’s very clean, but sparse, dark, and, James notes with worry, cold, though winter has not yet fully taken hold. Tellingly, are only a handful of books to be seen. They must be very worried about money if they haven’t bought up all the books in London already.

Peglar is waiting for them, standing and looking ill at ease. But he steps up to James, and then shake hands. James smiles at him, trying to put him at ease. Notes how pale he is, the way he’s moving with a limp. Having just dragged himself up those stairs, James wonders how Peglar manages them. They all sit, James and Bridgens taking the two available chairs, and Peglar perching on the edge of one of the pair of cots. James can’t help but notice that the cot closest to the fireplace is piled high with blankets, while the other is neatly made up, with only a single thin blanket.

He averts his eyes; no need to let on that he’s seen that one of those beds is going unused. There is something comforting about the sight: that despite all the hardships they have suffered, and everything against them they have managed to claw a space for the two of them. He thinks them brave, to take such risks, however circumspectly. It’s a specific kind of bravery that James suspects that he does not possess himself. He sets the thought aside.

There’s another moment of silence. James hesitates, his usual social graces having deserted him.

But he takes a breath and begins, “As you may know, Captain Crozier is trying to secure some sort of pension for the surviving men.”

That receives a skeptical look from Peglar. Bridgens has that flat look, that does little to show that he thinks it a waste of time.

“And his efforts are much appreciated,” Bridgens says blandly.

“Perhaps you’re skeptical it will do much good. You’re probably right to be. Nevertheless, please believe that we will continue to try until we make some headway.” James hesitates, trying to find the best way to approach the subject. “It would be easier to help if we knew a bit about the financial situation you all find yourselves in.”

“We’re fine sir, we get by.” Bridgens says, clearly speaking for both of them. Peglar just watches the exchange, looking unhappy about the conversation, but too polite and diffident to protest.

“Or perhaps how your health is faring?”

Again Bridgens is the one who answers, “We all have some souvenirs of the trek, sir, as I’m sure you know. But we make do.”

James can sense when he’s not going to get anywhere in a conversation, so he gives up on the direct line of questions, and tries a different tack.

“Perhaps you have heard something from the other men, then?”

Peglar’s eyes flash with anger, and he forgets his veneer of careful respect for a moment. “John and I are fine, we’ll get by.” His tone is bitter and sharp, and not one James remembers hearing from him before. “But what are the others supposed to do? Hartnell lost fingers off his right hand, and his vision is bad. How’s he to support himself or his mother now? Morfin’s widow has four children, and how is she supposed to feed them on the pittance that’s left for a widow?” He stops abruptly, remembering himself. Bridgens has reached a hand towards Peglar as if he wants to lay it on his arm, but drops it before he touches him. Peglar notes the movement, look towards Bridgens for a moment, and drops his eyes to the floor.

James ignores the awkwardness in the room, and says, “Well, if you have somewhere I could contact them, and anyone else whose location you know, that would be very helpful. I’d like to look in on them as well.”

Bridgens gets to his feet quickly, finds a scrap of paper, and writes them down for him.

James thanks him, and gets to his feet. “I won’t take more of your time. I do appreciate your candour. Please,” he reaches into his pocket, removing a folded piece of paper with his own address on it, “if there is anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate”. As he’s about to step out the door, he pulls something out of his pocket. He hands it to Bridgens. It’s a volume of the Iliad that James had purchased on a whim that morning.

“I don’t know if you remember, but you lent this to me, in the winter of ‘45. I know you left it behind, and quite a library besides, on the ships. It’s for you, if you haven’t already gotten a new volume back in your collection.”

But clearly Bridgens hasn’t: there are very few books here.

Bridgens takes the book from him, holds it in his hands and stares down at it without speaking, like James has given him something infinitely precious. There’s a long drawn out silence. Peglar is looking at Bridgens with a look of open affection, with just the tiniest hint of fond exasperation as Bridgens continues to just stare at the book.

After a moment more Peglar says, “Thank you, sir,” to James, without looking away from Bridgens.

Bridgens startles at that, then says: “Yes. Thank you,” with a depth of sincerity that James feels isn’t quite matched to the gift.

James sees himself out, and as he descends the stair, he hears the burble of voices from one of the other rooms. The walls seem paper thin here. He dearly hopes they are being careful.

***

Francis tries to concentrate on the music from the orchestra, as he leans forward in his seat against the railing of the box. It’s a failing effort, because he can’t stop throwing his mind at what else he should be doing to help his men. James had suggested the concert to try to improve his mood, but it seems to be doing very little on that front. The thought has barely entered his mind when the first piece draws to a close, and under the polite smatter of applause rising up, James jostles his shoulder and leans in to whisper a very poor pun in his ear. Despite himself, Francis smirks back at him, elbows him in retribution, and feels himself relax. When the notes of the next piece begin, he finds himself able to enjoy the music.

When the intermission arrives, Francis feels his hard-won relaxation start to fray at the sound of people gathering outside the box. He seems incapable of shedding these well-wishers and gawkers who all seem determined to make him relieve those terrible Arctic years for their own amusement.

“If I’d known I’d have to deal with this many sycophants after our return, I’d have volunteered to stay back on King William Island,” He tells James sourly.

James gives him a fond look. “I’ve no doubt you would have. Stay put, I’ll head them off.” He gets up, puts on that charming mask he has, and sweeps out. Francis can hear him talking loudly, and conveniently blocking the door so no one can get close enough to speak to Francis. James is laughing and telling some ridiculous story, and there’s no tension in his voice, he seems to be enjoying himself. Francis relaxes in his seat. Perhaps this concert was a good idea after all.

After a few minutes he hears James say, a little loudly, “Miss Cracroft! What a pleasure! I wanted a word with you,” then, to the gathering of people “I hope you’ll all excuse us,” followed by the sounds of them reluctantly drifting away.

Outside the box Francis can hear the murmur of Sophia’s voice, then James say, in a stage whisper: “I didn’t actually have anything to tell you. I’m guarding the fort. A solemn duty to protect the public. Anyone who tried to talk to Francis was in danger of getting thrown over the railing.”

Francis gets up and steps out of the box. “Don’t be melodramatic, I was going to glare sullenly at them at worst.”

Sophia looks up at him, smiling. She’s dressed in blue, and Francis is struck for a moment by how beautiful she looks, that familiar pang of longing and love. He is caught off guard by how the feeling is intensified by the sight of James at her side, leaning towards her: the wave in his dark hair, the way his eyes are sparkling as he turns his charm towards her. They make a perfectly striking pair, and Francis feels his love for both of them with a sharpness that almost wounds him.

“Hello, Sir Francis” Sophia says merrily. Again she seems genuinely happy at the sight of him, which is something of a delight to him, since there was a long period of time when it didn’t seem like that could be possible again.

“Miss Cracroft,” he replies, pretending to be very stiff and formal, and making a ludicrous bow, in the hopes of making her laugh. He’s delighted when he succeeds.

“And how are you enjoying the music?” she asks.

“I like it very well.” This has all the signs of a round of painful small talk, yet he’s happy to talk about anything at all with her.

“If not for the risks of socializing you run.”

“Well, James promised to keep me safe from that, and so he has.”

James looking surprised to be addressed, but smiles without letting himself be drawn into the conversation. It’s not like him.

“Very brave of him I’m sure.” Turning her smile on James, she adds, “Braver still for dragging you away from home in the first place.”

Francis laughs, and then the conversation eases, and they fall into something like their old rapport. They eventually have return to their seats for the second half, with great reluctance, not wanting the moment to end.

***

After a few days, James goes to visit Thomas Hartnell. Peglar was right: comparatively he and Bridgens are doing very well. Hartnell is working at the dockyard, harder than he should be given his health. They’ve met at a pub, and James sits and watches him. He hasn’t put much weight back on, and he looks exhausted and worn. He’s got a bit of a lost look in his eyes and doesn’t really open up to James, despite James’s best efforts. He just nurses his drink, speaks carefully and respectfully. Even so, he is deeply worried about being able to look after his mother, about being able to provide for her. James is thinking now about how fêted he has been. Francis too, though he had hated every moment. About the dazzle of people asking for stories in the intermission at the concert, to hear about the hardships they had suffered like it was a fairy tale to be told for amusement’s sake. Meanwhile these men are being ignored, the ones who suffered with them, who had fought for their life, and kept steady in the worst circumstances, and won through as surely as Francs and he had. But there is no reward of applause for them on the other side.

He’d known it before, but seeing the evidence in Hartnell’s dull eyes and hunched shoulders is something else entirely. He doesn’t want to think about all the families who have lost loved ones, and what their situation would be like. He was angry with this whole situation before, but his anger is starting to take on that fine edge of clarity that he’s come to associate with making a desperate play, at very high stakes.

When he gets home Francis is at his desk, hunched over his writing. He has that particular, hard set to his jaw that he gets when he’s writing to people who will not listen to him. Yet again he is writing about the men, no doubt. He looks up when James enters and wordlessly hands him the letter he was working on. James reads the letter over then sets it down. It’s honest, and accurate, and they both know it will come to nothing. James can see all the frustration and despair he’s feeling mirrored in Francis’s face. They said they would get the men home, and they did, but this feels like a worse failure than everything that had gone before, if only because it should not be beyond their abilities. The navy threw away good man on the madness that was the search for the passage; sent them out, and discarded them when they returned. James isn’t quite sure how to set it right, not yet, but he’s starting to get the shape of an approach in his head. So he squeezes Francis’s shoulder and says, “We will set this right,” like he has not a doubt in the world.

***

Sophia realizes that Francis seems to have given up on his attempt to evade all society, when she crosses paths with him yet again, at a party hosted by the Barrows. She’s relieved, as she had desperately wanted to see him again, but wasn’t sure how to engineer it. But here he is, which is surprising, until she makes out the elegant Captain Fitzjames at his side. With such a gregarious friend, it’s no wonder he’s been dragged out so often. She can’t help but feel it’s good for Francis.

She’s less hesitant about approaching him now, feeling reasonably sure that the she’ll be a welcome sight, so she makes her way over to them. And Francis does smile, wide enough to show the gap in his teeth.

She greets them both happily, but after a few exchanges of pleasantries Captain Fitzjames excuses himself from the conversation, heading to speak to a friend across the room. Francis watches him go, fondly, and Sophia turns her head to watch him make his way across the room.

James doesn’t make it all the way to his friend, before he’s waylaid by a young woman, who has extracted herself from a gaggle of giggling friends. Sophia recognizes when someone is angling for a dance, and recognizes the signs of getting gently rejected as well. Sophia turns to Francis to make a joke about how his friend seems determined to disappoint all the ladies in the room. She stops because Francis has watched the interaction, not with amusement, but with a flicker of worry on his face.

He catches her look, and shrugs. “I just wish he would dance. Be merrier. Shake off the dark cloud.”

Sophia replies, “He seems quite full of good cheer, Francis.” But even as she’s speaking she’s rethinking the words. She watches Captain Fitzjames across the room, laughing with his friend, as though no care has ever touched him. She wonders how much of it is true, and how much a mask. “I suppose he’s quite an actor, when he needs to be.”

But Francis’s frown is deepening at that, and Sophia really can’t stand the thought of him fretting.

“Worrying about someone needing to be merrier is a bit rich, coming from you,” she says. “Besides, he can take all the time he needs to feel more willing to be more social. It’s not like he’s going to want for dance partners when he comes around.” She gestures at the gaggle of young women from before, who are all tittering behind their fans, and watching Captain Fitzjames with wide eyes. “No, he won’t have any trouble. All those heroic exploits,” Sophia continues, still trying to rib Francis into smiling, “and with a face that handsome.” She stops, realizing that that last statement may have been a bit forward. But Francis is nodding in agreement, like she has said something eminently sensible.

She takes the moment of relaxation to suggest that they meet again. Perhaps he could come to call on her? She hates feeling like she has to rely on luck to see him. He hesitates for a moment, but agrees.

***

As James puts on his coat at the door, he calls back into the house to Francis, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me in my visit? I’m sure Goodsir would be delighted to see you as well. And it doesn’t do you much good sitting here and being a hermit.”

Francis comes to stand in the little foyer. “I wish I could join you, but I promised Sophia I would call on her today.”

James doesn’t let the welter of emotions he feels show in his face at that. A visit to Sophia. That surely means that Francis plans to propose, if not today then soon. James feels a pang of pain at that, though of course he has no right to. But then he’s always been a selfish creature. James is glad that it’s not the only thing he feels, because he is also truly glad for Francis. If anyone deserves to find some happiness it is him, and a marriage to Sophia would be as happy an ending for Francis as James can imagine. A sort of fairy tale ending, the gallant knight returning from a hellish quest for to gain the favour of his love.

“Well I suppose that’s a good enough reason.” James replies, channelling his happiness for Francis to the fore. He must be successful, because Francis’s face registers no concern.

Francis looks at the hall clock, then back at James, and says, “You’re going to be late.” James looks at the clock, curses, and leaps out the door, hurrying into a waiting cab.

Once he’s safely in the cab and alone James lets himself grieve, just a little. It’s selfish and stupid to feel any kind of loss for a love that was entirely one-sided: all unspoken longing on his part, and nothing but deep kindness and friendship on Francis’s. James would never be foolish enough to speak of such feelings, not even on what he had thought would be his death-bed. He may be selfish but he is not so much so that he would burden Francis with such unwelcome feelings nor curdle the friendship between them. James allows himself the length of the cab ride to mope, but no further, and as the cab rattles to a stop he firmly tells himself to stop morbing over the subject. His dearest friend will be wed and happy, and James refuses to be the sort of man who won’t be happy about that.

Despite his best intentions, when he steps out of the cab his mood is terrible, but it lifts at the sight of Goodsir, looking much better than when James had seen him last as they stepped off the ship in England. Goodsir ushers him into his small apartment. The rooms are a kind of low chaos, a pile of shells on a side table, a collection of pinned insects spread across the dining table. James gets distracted looking at the assortment of colourful beetles, before they settle down over tea and James approaches the reason of his visit. He begins to talk, trying to stick with facts about the things he had heard from Jopson, from Peglar and Bridgens, from Hartnell. But Goodsir is a very attentive audience, and before James quite realizes it, he is letting his emotions spill out, his feelings of failure for not having done better by his men now that they are back on shore.

Goodsir listen and nods, his dark eyes sad. After James has talked himself out he puts his teacup down. “Do you remember the ship’s boy? David Young. Before he died he asked me to return a ring to his sister. It was a poor quality piece, but it was all he had for her. It was buried with the boy. I tracked the girl down anyway. I wanted to tell her…well, that her brother had thought of her at the end I suppose. She has nothing to her name, and has no one in the world now that her brother is gone. There wasn’t much I could do for her. I gave her some money. Not sure how long it will last her.” Goodsir looks exhausted, and a bitterness creeps into his voice as he speaks. It is a hard thing to watch. James has always found Goodsir full of kindness, and a kind of endless love of the world around him.

In the cab ride when the visit is done, James turns the visit in his mind over and over. At first he is furious with himself for not having been able to provide more help before now, but this gradually ebbs into a rage against the Admiralty, against all of uncaring England really. He’s always been able to get things done through the Admiralty bureaucracy, when it matters, and damn the way things “should be done”. He realizes that part of why he has been so willing to defer to Francis on his approach is at least in part because he’s been following his old habits of stepping carefully around the movers and shakers in the Admiralty, taking pains to flatter and keep himself useful and not ruffle their feathers. Deep down, he has known that for them to get the men their pensions, and Jopson his promotion, will require stepping on some toes. He feels a wave of self-loathing at how long it took him to find his resolve, but he supposes one can’t drop the habits of a lifetime right away. Enough is enough, he’s ready for the fight now.

***

Sophia has carefully chosen the time for Francis’s visit to coincide with a time when her aunt is out of the house. It feels a bit foolish, as surely she is too much of an old maid now for these kinds of games. But she dearly wants the chance to speak to Francis candidly, and there will be no chance of that with the risk of her aunt interrupting them.

For a brief time after Francis’s arrival they seemed trapped in awkward pleasantries and Sophia is worried they aren’t capable of talking of anything deeper any more. Francis’s face clearly shows that he finds this new reliance on small-talk to be equally painful.

“I hope attending the Barrows’ party wasn’t too dull for you.” Sophia says, casting around desperately for something to say. “At least Captain Walker wasn’t in attendance to bother you.”

“I actually enjoy seeing him look like a frightened child at the sight of you.” Francis replies.

The joke catches her off guard, and she gives an inelegant snort of laughter, and then they’re both laughing, as much in relief as the tension between them lifts as anything else.

When their amusement fades, Francis pauses, then says, “Sophy, are you alright?” in that way he has, where he really cares, and she can trust him to help her bear this burden too.

“Oh Francis, of course I’m fine.” Sophia replies with false brightness.

But he just keeps looking at her, like he sees straight through her dissembling.

“Well, that’s not quite true.” She confesses, dropping her eyes to the floor. “I’ve been so very lonely.”

“Lonely?” He asks gently, “As I remember it you always had a great many friends.”

“That was before you were so delayed in your return. I had little time for anything that wasn’t work for quite some time. I now I don’t have even that.” Realizing how that must sound, she adds hastily, “But of course I am so glad that work isn’t needed anymore.”

When she darts a glance at Francis he is watching her attentively. It’s somewhere between a relief and utterly disconcerting. It’s been a very long time since someone paid such careful attention to what Sophia has to say, much less cared what she was thinking.

When her silence drags on, he offers, “Perhaps I understand what you feel, a little. When the ships were caught in the ice, I had little to do except dwell on my failures. I would have given much for any kind of action or activity and there was none to be had. And now, well. I am returned, and have been handed everything I wanted before we departed. Even,” he chuckles self-deprecatingly, “a knighthood. And yet it is all hollow and empty to me. Not at all how I imagined it would feel.”

His tone is not accusatory, but his words strike to close to home. They both know she is one of the reasons he wanted he those accolades in the past.

Her lips twist bitterly. “Time does have a way of making fools of our past selves, doesn’t it?”

She hears him inhale as if to speak, and then he falls silent. She regrets her words. “I’m sorry.” She says. “I didn’t mean...”

“It’s fine,” he says. “Don’t apologize for being honest.”

They sit quietly for a bit longer, then he hesitatingly asks her about her opinion on the Royal Society Lecture they had attended, and they pass on to safer subjects.

When it is time for him to take his leave, they descend the stairs together so she can see him off. As they pass the sitting room, there’s a rustle of clothing, and her aunt emerges in the doorway. Sophia starts, and Francis stiffens beside her.

“Auntie, I didn’t know you were home.”

“I was finished earlier than I expected. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She’s giving them both a piercing look, which Sophia finds worrying, but then she smiles. “Sir Francis, it’s lovely to see you.”

“Lady Jane. I was just leaving.” He beats a hasty retreat, and they both watch him go.

Once the front door closes behind him, her aunt turns to Sophia expectantly.

“Well?” she says, “Did he propose again?”

Sophia is too shocked to answer for a moment, then manages, “No. No, of course not. He’s not going to propose.”

Her aunt makes a skeptical noise. “I’m sure he’ll work himself up to it. He’s really not the sort of man to change his mind. You’d better accept him this time.”

Sophia sputters in response. Since his return she had dismissed any thought that she could be anything to Francis like what she was before, given everything that had passed between them. But she feels the thought take root, and the flicker of hope in it hurts.

“Oh don’t act surprised,” her aunt says, “he’s suitable enough now. Retired, won’t be leaving you alone on shore, which I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of. He’s knighted, a hero. If he writes his memoirs I’m sure they’ll sell well. And you’ve not getting any younger, my dear.”

Sophia reels a bit at that. The mercenary way her aunt lays out her reasoning is harsh and painful to hear, not least because it matches so closely her own reasoning from years ago. She manages to escape the conversation with a noncommittal noise, but it takes all her restraint to keep the expression on her face under control.

She goes to her rooms, and tries to find something to occupy her mind. But again, not reading nor embroidery will hold her attention, and she ends up pacing, letting the movement of her feet help her sort through all the things she felt for Francis, all the things she still feels.

She has always loved him, and she had refused him twice despite it, in the certainty of how they would make one another miserable. At the time her logic had seemed so inescapably sound. Years of absence have faded those objections away, but she wonders if really that only means she is deeply selfish.

But then perhaps he won’t see it that way. The thing about Francis is the way he always loved her for herself, and they have always been able to be very honest with one another. That may be what is called for now. So she sits down at her desk and writes him a short note, before she can lose her nerve, asking him to call on her again.

***

Over breakfast, Francis watches James carefully. He is worried about him, in a way that has stayed with him since the before the rescue. Then it had been a constant refrain of _will he live, please let him live_ which has now changed to a continued and deep concern about when James will shake off the dark cloud that surrounds him. Francis had thought London life would do well for James, and it has to a point. He brightens when out in society, but there’s always a sense of a thin veneer over a deep despondency that worries at Francis. He continues to hope that James will find his way among his old friends, even if that means, inevitably, that he draws away from Francis. Francis suspects that the reason James has stayed so close to him, even now that he has recovered, is that he shares Francis’s guilt about not being able to do more for their men.

James is talking about that now, explaining the way his conversation with Goodsir had gone. He has a kind of fierce and desperate anger about him. Francis wishes he could believe that James would be able to bend the stubborn idiocy of the Admiralty to his sense of what is right. But Francis does not think anyone can succeed in that, not even a man he thinks as highly of as he does of James.

James asks Francis about the conversation with Sophia. There was little said between them that is of interest to anyone else, and Francis says as much. He is aware that his answer is curt and surly. But James just shoots him a fond look, and lets the matter drop.

But now Francis is thinking of James and Sophia, and his own foolish heart. He is predictable in this, he thinks, watching James: falling in love with someone above him, who would not return his affection. Which is for the best, since there is something deeply wrong and fractured in him. Before the Arctic he had thought at least that he could love Sophia deeply and truly, even if it was unwanted. He is true enough, at least. His regard for Sophia has not lessened, even as his affection for James grew over those terrible years in the Arctic, until it became a love, deep and true as what he feels for Sophia. And now he is caught between the two of them. The only saving grace is that his affections would be unwelcome to either of the people he loves.

***

Two days later, when Francis calls on her again, Sophia patiently waits until they have picked their way through their initial greeting, before she steels herself and begins her rehearsed apology.

“Francis. I need to apologize to you. For ever even suggesting you join the expedition. I know that I am to blame for what you suffered these past years. I don’t know if you forgive me but I want you to know how sorry I am.”

“There isn’t anything to forgive, Sophy,” he replies gently. “If we have to determine the true reason I went, it was due to my own wounded pride as much as anything. You are not to blame for that.”

“Don’t try to spare my emotions, we are always honest with one another.”

“I’m being honest.” Francis replies, sounding slightly baffled.

“I don’t understand why you’re not angry with me,” she says in frustration. She had her words rehearsed but her script deserts her and she begins to say things she had not meant to confess. “I don’t know how you can be so understanding about this. I drove you away twice, despite how I loved you. And now you are back and all I can think of is how I still love you, and those things that stood between us before are gone. I still love you, Francis, is there any chance you still feel the same?” The last words come out in a desperate burst. If she were a man there would be no way to construe this but as a proposal. At some point in her outburst she has grabbed Francis’s hand, though she doesn’t recall doing so. She’s aware of her pulse pounding in her ears, the feel of his hand under hers.

She looks at him, desperately searching for some sign of what he is thinking. He is staring at her, stunned. But then he draws back from her, careful and regretful, pulling his hands from hers.

He stands, paces for a moment, then stops before her, and speaks slowly and hesitantly. “I think I will always love you Sophy. But you were wise to refuse me before. I can’t pretend that my heart is entirely yours in the way it once was.”

She had thought it was painful to have to refuse a heartfelt proposal, but being the one rejected is far worse. There’s a sick feeling knowing she’s revealed this much of herself to someone who doesn’t share her feelings. And she knows in a single moment of agonizing clarity that he has found someone else.

“Who is it?” She asks, trying to keep a rein on her emotions, biting out the words. And then, aware even as she says it that she’s striking out at him, in her hurt, “I hadn’t thought you’d been returned long enough to strike up a connection with some new woman, unsociable as you are.”

She stops, seeing the expression on his face go from regretful and kind to stricken, and all at once she knows. _Oh. Very stupid, Sophia_ , she thinks.

Because of course he hasn’t found some other woman to replace her. He has never been one to form any kind of deep connection quickly. He edges into friendship, slowly, cautiously, almost grudgingly, and then forms an attachment with everything he has. And of course the time since his return hasn’t facilitated such bonds forming. But before that? Oh, that she could well imagine, the bond that might form amidst the suffering. And there’s only one person who it could be: Captain Fitzjames, handsome and devoted to Francis. Captain Fitzjames who Francis has shared a home with since soon after his return. And of course she’s seen it too: has seen Francis forcing himself out to all kinds of social events that he would rather not attend, because Captain Fitzjames enjoys it. Francis used to do that for her. And she has seen too how Captain Fitzjames can nudge him from scowling to genuine smiles with a whispered word at a party.

Now that she knows what she was seeing, she realized she is looking in at something she used to do: knows all about stealing a moment for just the two of them in a larger company. It hurts, that that can’t be hers again. It hurts, but at the same time, she is glad for him. Because Francis should have someone who loves him, Francis who is so often lonely, who pushes people away from him. And Captain Fitzjames looks at him like he loves him, now that she knows what she was looking at. She thinks of Captain Fitzjames at the concert, guarding the door to the box, so Francis didn’t have to deal with fools. Thinks of Francis, at the party, fretting that Captain Fitzjames wasn’t being merry enough to dance. She gets herself under control; she can mourn for herself later. And perhaps she does not have to lose her friendship with Francis.

Francis is still looking at her, worried and wary. Of course, she can’t say anything about such a ruinous allegation, and there is no reason he should trust her, not when Captain Fitzjames’s safety is on the line as well. And it will only make him worry if she reveals that she’s guessed his secret. So she forces a smile, though she suspects it to be a watery one.

“Forgive me.” She says, “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my business. And it doesn’t matter who it is. Might we be friends, still?”

“Yes. Of course Sophy, always,” says Francis, sounding a little dazed.

“So we can meet again?” she asks.

“Yes, certainly. I depart for Banbridge soon, but I’ll be back in London in two weeks. We can meet then.”

She nods. “We’ll meet then.”

***

When Francis returns home from the visit with Sophia, James is in the sitting room, looking at him expectantly. Francis was hoping to have some time alone to pick apart the knot of what had happened until he understood it. He feels he is teetering perfectly balanced between happy at the prospect of a return to friendship with Sophy, whom he had missed terribly, and despair at refusing an offer that would have been everything he wanted, once. He hates himself, too, but that’s nothing new. He wishes that he could either be free of his love for Sophia or accept her, but here sits James, and Francis can’t deny the deep wellspring of love he feels at the sight of him.

James greets him with a smile, but one that is not entirely genuine. “And how did the conversation with Miss Cracroft go?”

“It went as well as I could hope for. We’ve agreed to be friends.” Francis smiles at this improbable and delightful fact.

“You seem happy?” James says slowly, carefully.

“I missed her. It was one thing to be at sea, where I had duty to keep me occupied. But to be back in London, to know she was nearby and not be able to speak to her, was very hard.” Francis says truthfully. He cocks his head at James, trying to understand the source of the other man’s tentativeness.

“So you’ll propose again?”

“No, no.” Francis replies, in confusion, “That’s all passed now. We’re friends.”

“What possible reason could she have to reject you now? Good lord, I have seen the way she looks at you! You can’t tell me her feelings have changed, and I know you love her still. All other objection must be mitigated by your new circumstances.”

Francis looks away from him. “Not quite all objections. Leave it, please. I’m more than content with her friendship.”

***

When James comes down from his room for breakfast on the morning before Francis’s departure for Banbridge, Francis is already up, and staring blankly into a cup of tea. James briefly thinks Francis has risen early to get a start on any last-minute tasks remaining before his visit home. But one look at Francis proves that incorrect. Francis looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, and a slight shake in his hands. Nightmares must have woken him again.

James takes his seat at the table. “You could have woken me. I would have sat up with you.”

James doesn’t know the exact shape that Francis’s nightmares take, but during the time after the rescue when they had to share a cabin as they returned to England, he gleaned enough to know that the dreams are terrible things that wake Francis in panic, and keep him from sleep after. It often comforted Francis to have James close when he woke. He could guess at the dreams, if he let himself, from the way Francis, still unguarded from waking, would sometimes search his face frantically, or grab James’s wrist, fingers pressed urgently to feel for his pulse.

“I’m not a child. I wasn’t going to ruin both our sleep,” Francis replies sourly.

James sighs but lets the topic go. He says, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be too busy when you visit your sisters for nightmares.”

“I’ll make sure to find time to write to the Admiralty while I’m away.” Francis replies.

“I fear it won’t do any good.” James says, carefully.

Francis snaps back, “Well of course it won’t do any good.” Then he visibly collects himself, says tiredly, “But I can’t very not try, can I?”

James, hesitates, picks his words with care. “I think you might be better leaving it alone for a few weeks. I think we might be better off approaching people directly.”

“So your proposal is what? Waste two weeks in Ireland, and return and be told no again?”

“Well they’re going to ignore any letter you write anyway,” James replies, “so I don’t see what difference it makes whether you wait two weeks or not.” He hears the words after they’re said, and winces. He didn’t mean to pick a fight on this again.

But Francis shows no sign of a flash of temper at the words, just sits, shoulders slumped, for a long time. Then he says, sounding defeated, “It’s all I know how to do. And I can’t not try.”

James is struck by how worn down and tired he looks. Not just from one night of no rest, but from many of them, and ceaseless worry besides. He leans forward to get Francis’s attention.

“You’ve approached this head on, and exhausted yourself,” James says, softly. “Go, visit your sisters. Rest. It’ll look clearer with a break. We’ll find a way. Trust me.”

Francis stares at James, then straightens his slumped shoulders, and gives him a rueful smile. “You’re probably right. Knowing my sisters, I’ll not have a moment of peace and quiet to write a single word anyway.”

“See, it’s for the best you don’t try.” He adds, hopefully, “What are you plans for the day?” but Francis disappoints him with his answer.

“I’m meeting Jopson today. I won’t see him again before I leave. I worry about how he’s taking the news of the promotion. You can know a thing won’t come through, and still want it, and I worry he won’t have anyone who will understand that while I’m gone. His brother loves him, but he’s not a naval man.”

James feels a surge of sympathy. “Well I’ll certainly try to keep him in good spirits when he comes by for dinner on Thursday.”

Francis gives him a briefly startled look. James suspects that Francis (and by extent Jopson), didn’t expect James to keep the weekly dinner appointment without Francis there, and feels mildly insulted about it. “Make sure he knows he’s still expected for the dinner, would you?” he says.

***

James prides himself on keeping a conversation going, but without the presence of Francis, the conversation with Jopson over dinner is a painful, limping thing. James grimly makes a try at keeping the words flowing, but Jopson is carefully answering every question with nothing more than a toneless “Yes, sir” and “No, sir”, with the air of a man trying to avoid putting his foot in it with a senior officer.

At least, James thinks wryly, he seems to be answering truthfully, and not replying with the stubborn set to his jaw he’d had back during Francis’s convalescence aboard Terror. Back then he had answered questions with perfect correctness, with eyes that had burned with protective anger. He gave James the feeling that pushing too hard to see Francis would net him a one man mutiny, and he had more than once decided that discretion was the better part of valour, that he had enough to deal with as it was, and beat a retreat. There’s been an understanding between them since then, if only from affection for Francis.

In his desperation to keep the conversation alive James finds himself falling back on asking the questions that Francis always asks.

“How is your brother?” James says.

“He’s very well sir.” Jopson replies, then returns to silence.

James waits for some kind of elaboration, but nothing is forthcoming. “And how is your health?”

Jopson opens his mouth, seems to rethink his answer, and gives a sigh. “You needn’t go through the motions, sir.”

James points a finger at him. “If you’re willing to lie to Francis, and say I did ask all the usual questions, then I can leave you in peace.”

Jopson gives a startled laugh. “In that case, sir, my health is unchanged since last week, and yes, I have been eating enough.”

James raises his glass towards him, in a mocking toast. “There, now my duty is done.”

“He needn’t worry about me,” Jopson says with a mulish look in his eyes, “But thank you, for settling his mind while he’s gone.”

“Well I didn’t do it just for Francis’s sake. I wanted to make see that you’re alright for myself. I know the news about the promotion was hard.”

Jopson sets his cutlery aside and smooths his hair back from his face. “It’s not a shock: you can’t make an officer from a steward. I should have resigned myself to it from the first, not hung my hopes on something foolish.”

“Well, you’d hardly be an explorer if you didn’t have more hope than sense, even when the odds are against you,” James says. “I wanted to speak to you about what you’ll do next.”

“Captain Crozier has put in a good word for me with Captain Kellet. He sails for the Mediterranean next month, and has need of a steward. It’s a good opportunity, sir.” Jopson’s voice is lacking all enthusiasm.

James says, very seriously, “Can I offer you a piece of advice? Don’t take up another naval position just yet.”

The stubborn look is back in Jopson’s face. “I can do it,” he says, “my health is fine. I’m recovered.”

James, who knows something of the frustration of a slow recovery, says, “I’m sure you are. But they’ll never promote you if you’re actively serving as a steward.”

Jopson looks down at his plate. “I told you, sir, if you have any strings you can pull…”

“You’d rather I look to the pensions for the men. I am looking to that as well, I promise, but I can put my mind to more than one thing at once.” Jopson looks back up at him, so James hurries on before he can make another protest. “Let me guess, Francis told you that you might try to appeal again in a letter, but that it won’t come through, and suggested you resign yourself the way things are, try to move on.”

Jopson nods.

“Francis gives very solid advice. You should probably follow it. Just perhaps don’t follow it just yet?” James leans forward conspiratorially, “I may have a trick or two left. Now if Francis were here, he’d say you shouldn’t hope for anything.”

“But he’s not here, and you’re not saying that, sir,” Jopson replies.

James winks at him. “No, I’m not. So don’t commit to anything just yet. And bring the Admiralty letter next week when you come for dinner. Let’s see exactly what they said, and how much room they left us to manoeuvre.”

Jopson gives him a long assessing look. Then he smiles a bit, says, “Very good, sir,” and turns his attention back to his dinner.

***

Sophia is feeling a deep regret at her choice of taking shelter from the rain in this particular shop. There is a crowd of other people who have done the same, and she has the misfortune of being trapped in the dullest possible conversation with a man who professes himself to be a great admirer of her aunt. She lets her eyes glaze over and watch the rain on the shop window over the man’s shoulder, as he continues to blather on at her. She wonders if there’s any hope for escape, or if she’s going to be here until she grows old and grey.

“I could explain further, if you’d join me for tea? Or I could escort you home? I would dearly love to meet your aunt. I am an author, you see, and I know she is great friends with the likes of Charles Dickens himself!” He tells her intently.

She’s completely lost track of the conversation, but she recognizes the possibility of escape. “Pleasant as that sounds, I’m afraid I’m meeting someone for tea,” she lies. “I’m sure they’ll be here in a moment.”

“Well,” he says with every appearance of delight, “Allow me to wait with you. I’d hate to leave a lady alone.” Heaven help her, he seems to think he’s being charming.

With no escape route left, she contents herself with plastering something like a smile on her face, and resigning herself to never escaping this conversation.

But then there’s movement from the crowd, and Captain Fitzjames steps forward and makes his way to her side.

“Miss Cracroft, my sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting.” He offers her his arm, giving the man a disarming smile, then proceeding to ignore him. “Shall we? I fear I’ve already made us late.”

Sophia hides her surprise, takes his proffered arm, and lets him escort her out into the rain and across the street to a teashop. She’s laughing as she they step inside.

“However can I thank you?” She asks. “I had given up all hope of escape.”

“No one deserves to have to listen to that much of an idiot for long,” he replies. “I can keep you company until whoever you are meeting shows up?” Then he adds, “But my apologies, that’s exactly what you just escaped. Have I trapped you again?”

“Oh I wasn’t actually meeting anyone, it was just an excuse. If you hadn’t intervened, I would have been there forever.” She catches sight of the man emerging from the shop. “To keep me perfectly safe, you’d better sit with me for tea.” She doubts she’ll be ambushed again, but she has dearly wanted a chance with speak more with Captain Fitzjames since she realized what he was to Francis.

Captain Fitzjames agrees readily enough, and nods to the hovering waiter. As they take their seats he says, in a remarkably accurate impersonation of the man from earlier, “I’d hate to leave a lady in distress.”

She laughs. “I feel like you’ve encountered him before.”

“Not him precisely, but I know his type. He reminds me very much of the merchants of guano who I was tasked with forcing to mind their manners off the coast of Africa.” His gestures are expansive, and it’s a funny story, though increasingly improbable. Sophia laughs along obligingly at first, and then with genuine amusement. She knows when someone is trying to be charming, and Captain Fitzjames is trying very hard.

“What brought you out in the rain today?” Sophia asks when the story is done.

“Well, Francis is visiting Ireland as you know, and I found myself somewhat at a loose end,” he says, with the air of a confession.

“You must miss him.”

Captain Fitzjames waves his hand, dismissively. “He’s only been away week.” Then he pauses, and his face softens. “I miss him terribly.”

Sophia confides, “I feel I just got used to seeing him again, and off he goes.”

“Well, we can hardly begrudge him the chance to visit his sisters. I’m sure he’ll have a nice time.”

Sophia laughs. “Do you mean he’ll return frowning and claiming to never want to see people ever again?”

“He’ll have to see more than three people in two weeks, so I expect so!”

They both laugh, then sigh. Then give each other a wry look.

“So tell me, Miss Cracroft, how you are spending your time? Perhaps you have some suggestions for keeping myself distracted.”

“Truthfully I’m at a loose end myself. I had gotten so used to spending all my time arguing with the Admiralty, and penning letters, and managing accounts, and now…” she stops, realizes who she’s speaking to, and how terribly callous what she’d said was. She starts to stammer an apology. But Captain Fitzjames waves her apology away, still looking relaxed and unperturbed.

“I’m hardly going to be offended by your efforts,” he says. “I confess myself quite happy that you made them, since the Arctic had a sad lack of teahouses.” He looks at her more seriously. “You almost sound like you miss scraping with Barrow and his ilk.”

“It passed the time.” Sophia tries to say it casually, but she’s remembering how frantically she has been searching for anything that would keep her mind occupied, back in those terrible days. When she couldn’t bear to think anymore, and worked herself to exhaustion to avoid thinking. When she stood out in the snow until her lips were blue. When she missed and worried for Francis so much it felt like she was tearing herself apart. She realizes she’s let the conversation lag for too long, but Captain Fitzjames is sipping his tea, and seems willing to let her come back to herself.

“Well, they’re still obstinate, so there’s plenty to throw yourself into if you want to keep at it,” he says. “You needn’t let a successful rescue be the end of it.”

“I assume you’re referring to Mr. Jopson’s promotion?”

“Among other things. I’m not sure how many details Francis gave you about the situation?”

She shrugs. “He’s mentioned his frustrations. But he’s very defensive about it, and if I’m honest I’m not sure I fully understand his stance.” She hesitates, but decides she might as be truthful. “He can take difficult positions sometimes, because he thinks them just and therefore obvious to everyone, with no eye to reality.” She blinks, realizing she’s come very close to criticizing Francis to his lover, and might be giving offense “Not that it’s not admirable…”

Captain Fitzjames has a wry twist to his lips. “He just expects everyone to see things as clearly as he does.”

Sophia is relieved to be understood. “Yes, and then it hurts him when they don’t. And he’ll make a fight of something that he should let go.”

“Sometimes he does,” Captain Fitzjames agrees. “But not in this case. This is worthwhile fight.”

“Can I ask…” she hesitates. “Don’t answer if it’s too painful.”

He motions for her to go on.

“You say it’s a worthwhile fight. Are you certain of that? Francis is loyal to a fault. I can’t help worrying that he’s being blind in this. He’s asking the Admiralty to confirm a field promotion of a steward, someone who’s had no time in command, no training up as a midshipman. How can he possibly be expected to command?”

Captain Fitzjames looks amused. “You’ve been listening to Sir John Barrow’s line on this.”

“Hardly. I mean, I spoke about it with Richard Collinson…”

He raises an eyebrow.

She thinks about it for a moment. “So I suppose you’re right. Sir John Barrow’s words, even if not straight out of the horse’s mouth. What’s the truth, then?”

The request seems to surprise him. “The truth?”

“Yes. The truth. Be honest, please.”

Captain Fitzjames gives her an appraising look. She meets his gaze, and then there’s a strange shift in in his face and his posture. He’s no longer relaxed and easy, and the smile is gone, replaced by an intensity she hadn’t seen from him before. “I don’t think I can convey to you how awful it was out there. Not to you, not to anyone. I’m sure you’ve heard stories of heroism and resilience. There was nothing like that. Do you know what it takes to keep men together under circumstances like that? Not just to control them, but to keep them believing that they are men, not animals, to make them believe there is hope, when they are literally dying on their feet, and every instinct says to lash out, to fight, to save themselves, and themselves only? Officers came up short: good men, trained to command and lead.” His gaze has gone distant, and she’s not quite sure what he’s seeing. She hardly dares move in case it breaks off the flow of words.

When he falls silent she ventures, “You mean my uncle.”

He startles and stares at her. “I didn’t mean…” He says quickly. “I’m not casting aspersions on anyone. I mean no disrespect to your uncle. Sir John was a good man, and nothing but kind to me.”

Sophia is not stupid, and she knows that kindness and competence are not the same thing. Fitzjames’s reply lines up so painfully with what she has already heard, other conversations with naval men about her uncle, all the questions dodged, all the answers carefully crafted. But she doesn’t dare press further, doesn’t want to break this moment: it’s the most truth she’s heard about the expedition. Every other word about it has been so obviously carefully edited, censored and sanitized. Even so, the horror has bled through.

“I asked you to be honest,” she says softly, trying to put him at ease. “So: good men failed?”

Captain Fitzjames flinches, and Sophia suddenly realizes it is himself he means when he speaks of officers faltering and failing. “Yes. Faltered or worse.” He continues, “Men would do things at times like that, for the slightest hint of a way out, when the prospect of death is pressing all around you. We were short on officers. We choose the best man we could to do the job. Jopson was a natural at command. Calm in a moment of crisis, brave to a fault, had a feel for easing tensions among the men. You could trust him. He gave an order and the men followed it. Look, he’s a better officer than a lot I’ve served with.” He’s been fiddling with a teaspoon while he speaks. Now he lays it carefully on the table and visibly assembles his mask again, the image of light-heartedness and ease that she now realizes is an act. “Besides,” he adds lightly, “so what if he doesn’t have all the requirements for the position? He wouldn’t be the only officer in the navy who had been promoted not quite by the book.”

“Oh?” Sophia replies in an equally light tone, willing to let him lighten the mood, but also delighted at the prospect of gossip. “Who?”

“You’d be surprised,” he replies, with a disarming smile. “But usually it’s the sort of thing that everyone’s too embarrassed to mention afterwards. That’s the problem, really: he’s so well known. It would be easier if no one knew his name, I could put a bit of pressure in the right place with no one being the wiser until it was too late. This will all have to be above aboard, which is a tall order.”

“Will have to be? I thought they’d refused the promotion?” Sophia asks.

Captain Fitzjames waves a hand at her. “A first sally. I’m hardly going to give up after one try. We’ve tried it Francis’s way, now let’s see what I can do. The Admiralty think the question of the men’s pensions and money for families are settled too. I can’t wait to disabuse them of that notion as well.”

“The problem is, we’re going to need to get a lot of people on side for this to work,” Sophia says thoughtfully, “and a lot of people have been speaking out against us already. It’s going to be hard to get them to go back on things they’ve been saying so publicly. I do wish we’d got on this sooner. But I suppose Francis insisted.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Captain Fitzjames says. “Wait a moment. Against _us_?”

“You don’t want help? Because it strikes me that a good first step might be a conversation with Sidney Herbert?”

“Yes, he’s exactly the kind of politician who I’d like to speak to. But I’m not sure how I can get him to meet with me.” Captain Fitzjames is grinning now, and unless she misses her guess it’s a real smile.

“I can get you in a room with him. There’s a literary society meeting in a few days that he’ll be attending. I’ll get you invited.”

“Well then,” Captain Fitzjames replies, “No time to lose.”

***

James had been in the sitting room, pretending to himself he is working through correspondence, when actually he is jumping at every noise and staring at the walkway to the house, waiting for Francis’s return. When he finally catches sight of him, he is on his feet and at the front door before Francis enters the house. Francis is cursing under his breath as he struggles to wrangle his luggage, but when he sees James his expression changes, from tired and annoyed to a real smile, a happy one. James feels a stutter of his heart in his chest as Francis steps forward and grasps his hand. James grins back, finds himself distracted by Francis’s closeness. The moment gets charged, goes on too long, and Francis steps back abruptly. James curses himself, wondering what showed in his face.

“I’ll just put my things away.” Francis says.

James returns to his desk, and picks up the letter he had been failing to work on all this morning while he waited for Francis to return. He stares at it some more, until Francis comes back down, and leans against the back of his chair.

“What’s all this? Looks as if you’ve been busy.”

James tilts his head back to look up at Francis, and taps one of piles of letters he’d received, feeling very pleased with himself. “Things are coming along.”

“Things?” Francis asks. Then he pauses, and lifts a letter from the pile, looking at the handwriting. James recognizes it as a letter from Sophia, quick jottings of her recent success. “Is this from Sophia?”

“Yes,” James says. “I think we’ve managed to wrangle Sidney Herbert around to our point of view about the pensions. It’s a small start, but he let slip that Barrow’s got some new pet project he’s hoarding funds for, which might explain why he’s been so tight fisted with the purse strings. Sophia’s very quick about these things. She’s already coming up with a half dozen ideas of who else we can reach out to.”

Francis just stares back at him, shocked. It occurs, belatedly, to James that a close correspondence with Francis’s soon-to-be fiancée is perhaps less than appropriate.

But Francis’s expression shifts quickly to affectionate amusement. “I am dreading to ask this, but what on earth are you two plotting?”

“Oh, nothing you shouldn’t already be expecting,” James replies. “Our men need pensions for what they suffered. The families of those who died should receive a payment as well. And of course, Jopson’s promotion needs to be confirmed.”

“We’ve already been denied on all those fronts, James.”

“Yes, when we tried the straightforward approach. We’ve barely gotten started. We’ll talk them around.” He’s speaking breezily and trying to show an easy confidence, but he’s well aware that Francis sees right through this kind of thing from him.

“If anyone can do it, it’s the two of you,” Francis says wryly. He pulls up a chair, and scoots it up to the desk. “So, what do you need from me?

***

Three days later, James is at the desk in the front room of their little home with Sophia and Francis. Between them, he and Sophia are sketching out the next sortie against the Admiralty. They’re talking quickly, words bouncing back and forth as they sort through ideas, James taking quick notes as they go.

Part way through, James risk a glance at Francis, knowing full well that talk of this sort of maneuvering is fairly close to Francis’s version of hell. He does indeed have that set to his jaw that means he finds all this vexing, but he’s paying attention with that focused and stubborn look on his face. James feels a sudden overwhelming surge of love and affection for this man, and his principles and his dedication. He shakes himself out of it, returning to his notetaking, but not before he realizes that Sophia, who has been ticking off key members of the Admiralty on her fingers, is giving him a look of fond understanding. He looks away from her, hating being so obvious as to elicit that soft-eyed look she had given him. He has realized that Sophia is well aware of his feelings towards Francis, although fortunately she seems to view it with only a kind of gentle understanding, rather than the disgust he might have expected. Still, he wishes she was less perceptive, as he would much prefer his yearning for Francis to remain a private hurt. When he looks up again, Sophia has looked away from him.

“We need a list of where all the men on shore, what their needs are, and how dire their circumstance. How far the pay is failing to stretch. We’ll also need a list of the next of kin for the men who did not return, and details of what they are suffering. Things to pull at the public’s heart strings,” James says.

“Not just details,” Sophia adds. “We’ll need some people we can hold up as examples, to raise sympathy. Children or widows. And some of the men too. Good, honest, exemplary Englishmen. If we’re going to move the Admiralty at all it’s going to take some public pressure. They’re not going to move willingly.”

“We’ll have to figure out who the real sticklers in the Admiralty are, and why,” James adds. “What is Barrow’s newest pet project? Who’s hanging their hat on it? We’ll have to find someone we can ask in confidence.”

At James’s words, Francis turns his head towards Sophia. James watches, bemused, as they communicate through what appears to be a code of raised eyebrows and facial tics.

“I’ll talk to him.” Francis says.

“Talk to who?” James says, he thinks he’s managed to hide the prickle of… not jealousy, exactly. But a feeling of being pushed away from something he very much wants to be close to. It’s not so much that Sophia and Francis have this private language that bothers him, but that he’s not privy to it.

“Ross.” Sophia and Francis say at the same time.

“Sensible.” James says. “Now, for the trickiest part. Jopson”

James can hear how defensive Francis is when he says, “I won’t hear anything against him. He deserves this. If he doesn’t, then who does?”

James replies, “He doesn’t come from anything, doesn’t have the connections. None of the usual training.”

“He’d be an excellent officer, worth more than half the idiots who get their promotions handed to them because of who their father knows.”

“You know as well as I that that matters far less than who he has for connections. There’s you and I, and neither of us has a command so that does him no good. And against that, all of the Admiralty, and most anyone who Barrow can get on his side, which is almost everyone.”

Francis starts to reply, and James can guess what he’ll say. They’ve had this sort of argument before, and James knows Francis sees too much of his own past in Jopson’s situation: denied and denied, positions given to other men with less talent but more political ability or connections. James tries to head the argument off before it can get started. “Francis, we both know that personal qualities matter less than a surplus of political luck.” He feels his smile go a little sour.

Francis sighs, and rubs his eyes. “Sometimes someone gets lucky and has both. But you’re right, I suppose. And Jopson doesn’t have any of the time requirements that he needs, but none of that matters, if they won’t even let him get close to taking the exam. I assume you have a proposal?”

“Not yet. We don’t have enough information. We have to find out who said no just because everyone else did, rather than who actually disapproves. Start seeing who we can pick off. Give him a chance to take the test.”

James turns to the desk. “I have the letter here. They are not letting him take the test, because of the time requirement not being met. Fortunately, none of the many other objections are raised.”

Francis looks deeply skeptical but keeps his peace.

Into the break in words, Sophia, who has been watching their back and forth like it’s a spectator sport, says hesitantly, “I hate to bring this up. I know you think the world of him…”

Francis starts to look mulish again.

“I know, Francis,” she says. “But he is going to pass the exam, isn’t he?”

James looks at her in shock. This thought hadn’t actually occurred to him, and he knows it should have.

“If we manage this they’re only giving him one shot at exam. They’d be delighted if he didn’t pass. It would prove everything they’ve been saying right. And many people don’t pass on their first try.”

“I certainly didn’t,” James agrees. “You’re right, it’s not uncommon.”

James and Sophia turn to look at Francis.

“Oh, I passed first time.” Francis says.

“Of course you did.” Sophia replies, throwing a speaking look in James’s direction. He grins at her.

“But I see your point,” Francis continues. “I’ll talk to him when he comes by for dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh excellent,” Sophia agrees enthusiastically. “I’ll join you for that, I should meet him.”

James looks at Francis, who has no patience for people inviting themselves into his company. But Francis just smiles back at her.

***

As the dinner drags on, Sophia is regretting inviting herself. Jopson has been scrupulously polite to her, but speaks only one or two word answers to any question, and seems to lack any kind of opinion or thought of his own. He takes neat, careful bites of his meal, and looks like he doesn’t notice how awkward and stilted the conversation is.

Sophia refuses to admit defeat, and grimly keeps trying to draw him out. It fails spectacularly; the only change is that the more she pushes, the more a hint of coldness appears in his voice. Her dinner companions are absolutely no help: James seems absorbed in his dinner, and Francis is clearly enjoying himself. Sophia isn’t sure if it’s the chance to have peace and quiet to eat his meal in, her discomfort, or just the novel circumstance of not being the most uncomfortable person at a dinner party that he’s enjoying most, but whichever it is, it is highly annoying. She finally has to admit defeat in getting anything out of Jopson, and the rest of the meal is conducted in silence.

After the dinner is finally done, Francis nods to Jopson, and asks him for a word. Sophia knows he plans to apprise him of their plan for working towards his promotion, and to ask him about his readiness for the exam.

Sophia watches them step out of the room. “So, that’s Thomas Jopson.”

“Yes,” James agrees, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“The man you’re willing to fight the entire Admiralty to get a promotion for.”

“One and the same.”

“Please don’t be offended, but he does he have any personality at all?”

James gives a snort of laughter, “Oh, he does, and spent the whole dinner using it to annoy you. He used to do that to me as well. When the ships were beset in the ice. Francis and I were a bit at each other’s throats in those days. Jopson was never less than entirely professional, and polite. But sometimes, if Francis and I had had a particularly bad argument, Jopson used to give me this look that made me worried he was going to poison the tea.” Sophia knows James is giving her an edited version of that story: he’s got the breezy manner and the relaxed posture that she’s begun to recognize as him hiding things.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t drink tea if he offers me any?” She asks.

“My point was he’s protective of Francis.”

“Are you suggesting he has a reason to distrust me on that front?”

“Well, likely he knows the circumstances of…”

“Of my refusing Francis twice? Fair point.”

“He’ll come around. I’m relatively certain he somewhat trusts me now, and that only took multiple years in the Arctic.”

“Thank you James, that’s very helpful,” she replies tartly, but she’s grinning back too.

After Jopson has left for the evening, Francis says, “He’ll need to study up. I don’t know when he’ll find the time, though. I worry he’s already running himself ragged, and most of his money is going to his lodgings.”

“Perhaps there’s something we can do about that,” Sophia says thoughtfully.

***

“Barrow thinks there should be another try for the passage,” Ross tells Francis a few days later.  
“There’s not much appetite for it in parliament, so it’s not much more than a gleam in the man’s eye, but that’s what he’s angling for. If he’s going to achieve that he can’t afford an expenditure on pensions for your men.”

Francis has to take several deep breaths to calm himself. “Alright. Thank you. That is helpful to know.”

Ross gives him a sympathetic look, and changes the subject.

“I had also heard that Fitzjames is making an attempt at Jopson’s promotion again. You might try to talk him out of it. I know you two think you’re helping him, but consider: even if you succeed what then? He’ll be a Lieutenant with no hope of a posting. No one will take him, because you’ll have alienated the entire Admiralty getting the promotion in the first place, and he has no connections of his own. And no one will take him on in any other capacity either. So what will he do then?”

Francis is amused that Ross thinks he wouldn’t have thought this out in detail. “James has convinced Edward Charleswood to take on Jopson as third Lieutenant on his new command patrolling the channel, if Jopson passes the exam in time.”

“Solid work,” Ross replies, though he sounds a little skeptical.

“Oh, he’d be bored to death and you know it.” Francis says. “But I’ve spoken to McCormick. He’ll take him when he sails for the South Pacific.”

“McCormick?” Ross says in surprise, “You’ve been twisting arms to get him to agree to that.”

Francis shrugs. Ross is making it sound like he had been playing the sorts of politicking games that James and Sophie excel at. “I just told him if he wants the best, I knew the man for him, and he’d be a damn fool to take anyone else”

“From you that’s twisting arms,” Ross replies, amused.

As the visit draws to a close, and Francis goes to take his leave, Ross stops him.

“I hope I’m not crossing a line,” Ross says, “but I need to speak my mind. You’re spending a lot of time with Miss Cracroft.” He holds up his hand when Francis starts to interrupt. “I know, for a good cause. I worry about you, that’s all. You’re not happy, Francis.”

“Perhaps not.” Francis says, before Ross can drag up the miserable time he had spent on shore after Sophia had rejected him the second time. “But I don’t think I have the disposition for happiness. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“That’s not true, Francis.” Ross says. “I know you feel for her deeply still. But consider just because she worked so tirelessly for your return doesn’t mean you owe her anything. And you deserve someone who won’t toy with your affections, and would stick with you even when things are not all in your favour.”

“Don’t speak of her like that.” Francis says tiredly. “I cannot blame her for having the sense to know that her choice of a husband would constrain her life in many ways, and to making her choice with accordant care. Besides, that’s all past. She is not playing with my affections; we have been quite clear with one another that we are friends and nothing more.”

Ross looks dissatisfied with his response, but lets the matter drop.

***

James sets down his teacup, and looks across the table to Lady Jane. He can tell she is struggling to keep her composure. James has been speaking earnestly of Sir John’s dedication to his men, and of the struggles those same men are facing now. As it had become clear how much public pressure it was going to require to achieve their goals, both he and Sophia had agreed that Lady Jane’s network was going to be needed. Sophia had told James it would be not hard to convince her aunt to help, and she was right.

“It is shameful, shameful.” Lady Jane says. She blots at her eyes with a handkerchief, then continues briskly “You’re right, I can be of some use. You’ll want some fundraising. There’s some funds left from the rescue attempts. There were meant to be more ships sent this year, if need be.”

James has a sudden rush of gratitude towards her: one year more would have been far too late, but the unwavering refusal to be turned away by facts can sometimes yield surprising results. He and all the other survivors owe their lives to the depths of her stubbornness.

Lady Jane continues, “You’ll really want some public pressure. For that it is best to have stories that really speak to people. I can have a word with Charles Dickens, he can be counted on for this sort of thing. I may be able to convince him to publish something in _Household Words_. We’ll have to start fundraising in earnest as well. You’ll need some help with keeping the books, you’ll want to hire someone.”

“I have someone in mind,” James says, thinking of Jopson, “and Miss Cracroft has volunteered her time to help.”

“So Sir Francis is involved in this as well?” Lady Jane says with a sharp look. James finds it hard to read what’s in her voice. Something brittle, and sharp.

For the first time in the conversation James flounders. “He’s very devoted to the men.”

“Well I can hardly disapprove of his involvement. He’s a knight, and a hero, too, I suppose.” She sniffs. “Sophia should get stop dawdling on that front though. Before someone new catches his eye. She’s fast becoming too old to be a marriageable prospect.”

James, who desperately does not want to have this conversation with Lady Jane, manages to stammer his way out of it, and out the door.

When he returns home, Sophia is sitting in the front room of the house, which has been fully converted to an office, with several desks. She’s bent over a letter, but looks up when he enters. Sunlight is spilling through the window, shining on her hair, turning it to gold around her face. She smiles when she sees him, blue eyes bright. She’s lovely, and James can’t imagine how her aunt could think that she wouldn’t be able to hold a man’s regard. There’s no sign of Francis, but at this time of day he should be helping Jopson study.

“How did it go?” She asks with a smile.

“Extremely well. She’s very willing to help.”

Sophia tilts her head at him. “Oh no. What did she say?”

James hesitates, which makes her eyes narrow. “She alluded to Francis’s involvement. And to yours…”

Sophia starts to laugh. “Let me guess, third time’s the charm, and if I’m not careful I’ll become an old maid.”

James, wincing, says, “I’m afraid that’s a decent summary.”

Sophia gives a snort of laughter. “I’m sorry, that must have been very awkward for you. No way for you to suggest that someone else has his regard, I suppose.” She gives James a conspiratorial grin that he doesn’t quite understand the cause of.

“She means well,” James replies weakly.

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Sophia replies. “That makes it worse somehow.” They share a smile.

***

“Well?” says Will, to James, as he finishes reading the editorial Will has penned.

“It reads very well.” James says, “You might possibly want to find a synonym for ‘shameful’ though.”

His brother laughs and throws the close written sheet of paper back onto his desk.

“Noted,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And how is the fundraising going?”

“It’s early days,” James says. “Our hope is to make a payment to the next of kin of the men we lost, and circumvent some of the politicking.”

“There’s the start of public outrage about the treatment of the men in general. If you get enough of that going none of the politicians will be too pleased with Barrow.”

“That is the general idea, yes. I think he has some damn fool idea of one last push for the passage. The less clout he has, the better.”

Will taps his finger on the arm of his chair, then says, “I was worried you’d be working yourself to the bone with this, but you seem well.”

“There’s plenty to do,” James says with a shrug, “but honestly work is more restful than having nothing useful to occupy myself with.”

“Is that all?” Will says. “I was worried you’d accepted a posting.”

James laughs. “Good lord, no. I haven’t had any thoughts of sailing again”

“Truly?” Will sits up straight in his chair.

James nods, and his brother breaks into a broad grin.

The weather is unseasonably warm for early spring, so James sets out on foot for his return home. The walk gives him time to process his thoughts. He hadn’t realized until Will had mentioned a command, that he hadn’t been thinking of the next steps of his career. Now that his attention has been drawn to it, it is almost shocking to realize that for the first time since he joined the navy he didn’t have his next step on the ladder of advancement somewhere in his mind, the thought of the next time he could set foot on the deck of a ship.

He has been busy of course, but that doesn’t entirely account for it. There is also the bonds of affection with Francis, and his blooming friendship with Sophia that have given him a feeling of contentment on shore that he hadn’t expected he would be able to feel. There’s that old ache around his love for Francis, but he’s used to it now. And besides, he cannot imagine his friendship being shunted aside when Francis finally proposes to Sophia, as he had once feared. His vision of the future is hazy, but it has them both in it. And some part of his mind is asking: why go back to sea at all?

***

Sophia is aglow with a feeling of satisfaction. She can feel opinions shifting. There had been an editorial in their favour in the newspaper this morning, which neither she nor James had arranged to have written. Now, as she makes a round of the ballroom floor, she is pleasantly surprised at how many of the people she speaks to are already favourably disposed to her arguments, and nod along with little need for persuasion at how shamefully the men of the Franklin Expedition have been treated. It makes it easier for her to convince people to promise a donation to the cause. She is quite proud of how she has perfected her patter for this. It had taken her a little time to get it right, but now she’s got a good read on just what balance of flattery or appeal to patriotism will work with any given person.

Ready to rest on her laurels, she pauses on the edge of the room, looking for Francis and James. When she catches sight of them, she skirts the edge of the dance floor to join them in the out of the way corner that they and the Rosses have found.

“That went well?” James asks with a subtle nod towards her last convert.

“Practically perfectly,” Sophia replies happily. “Now I do believe I deserve a break. I think I need to dance. Francis?”

Francis shakes his head, though his eyes are fond. “I’m afraid I’ll decline.”

“Oh, don’t be boring. Come dance or I’ll have to find someone else.”

He shrugs. “Well perhaps you should, instead of wasting your time with me.” He says it casually with a hint of their old banter. But beside him Ross is staring at her with a hard look in his eyes. She belatedly realizes she is perhaps being a bit too forward, given what has passed between her and Francis. It’s just that it is hard to find how to do this, how to be his friend and love him, and what the line is. She falls into the old patterns too easily.

It wasn’t awkward before but now she feels wrong footed. Francis catches the awkwardness, and there’s a stammering moment, but then James, bless him, steps in smoothly and offers her his arm.

“Perhaps I can be of service? You certainly deserve to dance after all your successes.”

She lets him sweep her onto the dance floor. As they dance, she murmurs to him, “Was that too forward of me?”

“Francis wasn’t offended. Worried about stepping on your toes perhaps.”

She sighs, knowing that’s not exactly the truth.

“It’s shouldn’t bother him, he’s trod on my feet during a dance many times before,” she replies, keeping her tone light. She’s starting to turn the interaction fruitlessly over in her mind, but after a few steps she finds herself caught up in how gracefully James dances. It’s been a long time since she’s danced with a partner with his skill, and she finds herself relaxing into his arms, and following his lead around the floor.

By the time the dance is done, Francis has been drawn a little way away from the Rosses into what Sophia guesses is a scientific debate with several other men, given how intently Francis is focused. She gives Francis a smile, which he returns as she and James pass.

They return to the Rosses, and Ann Ross immediately begs James to dance with her. Sophia releases his arm as he agrees, and they take a turn on the floor, leaving her standing with Sir James Ross.

“I suppose we won’t get to speak to Francis again this evening,” she says to Ross lightly, nodding to where Francis is making quick gestures in the air to make his point. “I’m surprised you weren’t drawn into the discussion as well.”

Ross follows her gaze to look at Francis. “I was tempted, but I had hoped to have a few words with you.”

“With me?” Sophia replies, surprised. “You hardly lack opportunities for that.”

“I seldom have a chance to speak with you alone.” Ross turns to look at her.

Her answer dies on her lips at the unsmiling look on his face.

“I hope you’ll understand if I’m blunt,” he says, his voice low. “I am hoping I could convince you to stop toying with Francis. You could leave him be, give him some chance of finding happiness, instead of whatever game you’re playing.” She struggles to control her face. Ross nods briskly, when it’s clear she has no reply for him. “Something to think about. I don’t mean to be unkind. But he is my friend, and you are being heartless, as you have been before.”

She’s still searching for a response, when James and Ann Ross return from their dance, faces cheerful. Ross takes his wife’s hand, and leads her back onto the dance floor.

James gives her a sharp look, and leans towards her slightly to murmur, “is everything alright?’

Sophia looks at Ross, amid the sea of dancers, then at Francis, still caught in his scientific discussion. Very deliberately, she pushes her hurt and shock down as deep as she can. She puts on a smile, turns to James, and says, “Of course. I just realized we’re neglecting our push to gain more converts.” She takes his arm. “I think between the two of us we could charm at least a half dozen more people tonight.”

James looks at her searchingly, then visibly lets the matter drop. There’s a shift in his expression and how he holds himself, and suddenly he’s wearing the persona of Captain James Fitzjames, hero and adventurer.

“Only a half dozen? I say a full dozen, at least,” he replies. She squeezes his arm and makes sure her own smile settles into something more natural, and together they make their way back into the fray.

***

The next morning James rises late, tired from the evening before, and nursing a slight hangover. When he finally descends to the office only Jopson is present, bent carefully over some accounting. James nods to him, and takes his usual seat in a wing chair, pulling a stack of paperwork towards himself. He struggles to focus on the words.

After some time he’s startled from his work by a discreet cough. He looks up to see a serving tray with a cup of tea and a plate of toast on the side table beside him, and Jopson gliding back to his seat, apparently having left the room and returned soundlessly enough that James hadn’t noticed.

James sets his pen aside, and sips the tea gratefully. “Thank you Jopson,” he says. “Though it’s not necessary. I do know where the kitchen is.”

“I’m sure you do, sir,” Jopson replies, smoothing his hair back from his face, in a tone that suggests he does not, in fact, think that is the case.

James gestures to the accounts Jopson has been working out.

“How do we stand?” he asks.

“Very well, sir,” Jopson replies. “The donations will go far for the families of the dead.”

“We talked some more people around last night, as well,” James says confidently. “There will be more money coming in. And I think we’re getting close to having enough support to get a proposal for pensions raised.”

Jopson smiles at him. “I thought it impossible before, but now I see that you’ll succeed in it, sir. Thank you. It will mean everything to the men, and to their families.”

“Don’t thank me. You’ve done more than your fair share,” James says. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your promotion. We’ll get that done too.”

“It hardly matters,” Jopson says. “Those efforts aren’t gaining much traction, there’s no sense in denying it.”

James shifts uncomfortably. Jopson is right, though he wants to deny it. He and Sophia have been frantically searching for a way through that difficulty, with little success. Jopson watches James for a moment.

“You asked me to speak to you before I took another position. I’ve been offered a place as a steward. And I am very sick of being on shore. I plan to accept it,” Jopson says.

James startles, and stares at him. “You haven’t accepted yet, though,” he says quickly.

“No.”

“Have you told Francis?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you put off your answer?”

“I don’t want to risk losing the position,” Jopson relies.

James is frantically working through possibilities in his head. “Put it off a bit, I need a just a little more time. I know the waiting is hard…”

“Sir, this kind of uncertainty is more than hard. As would be knowing any promotion that comes will be through less than correct means.” He sighs. “I don’t think you can understand.”

James has a sudden flash of anger: Jopson deserves better than this. And this will break Francis’s heart. Francis, who has started to look happier, and less full of bitter anger towards the world at large. And besides, Jopson would make a fine officer, and James will be damned if he lets the navy he loves lose out because of its short-sighted ways.

“Come here,” he says, motioning to the wingchair across from his.

“Sir?” Jopson says in confusion.

“Indulge me, come on. I don’t want to have this conversation from across the room.” Jopson rises from his desk and takes his seat, watching James warily.

James takes a moment to gather his thoughts then says, “I am about to tell you the story of my path to becoming a midshipman. I am only going to tell it once, and then you are never going to complain to me about unorthodox approaches to promotion again. Is that clear?”

Jopson stares at him, then nods.

James takes a deep breath and begins the story. “My family was well enough connected for most occupations I could have turned myself to on land, but even as a boy I had my heart set on a career in the navy. We did have one connection, a Captain who was willing to let me serve as a volunteer until I could get the year of service I needed to qualify as a midshipman. I served a few months with him, before family troubles forced him to retire. I was in… somewhat of a state of limbo. No one would enroll me as a midshipman without the required time served, and we didn’t have any connections who would take me on as a volunteer. In the interim I had found a position as a master’s assistant, but that was obviously not a path to becoming an officer.”

James pauses, gathering his thoughts. Jopson is sitting very quietly, eyes intent.

“But there was one ship in port which I had heard was in need of a midshipman. So I wrote to the Admiralty resigning my post as master’s assistant, explaining I wished to enroll as a midshipman. They accepted my resignation but, as I had hoped, the reply made no mention of my lack of qualifying time served. I took the letter to my interview with the Captain. I was as charming as I knew how to be. When he asked about my previous service, I didn’t mention my lack of volunteer time, and showed him the letter from the Admiralty. He assumed I was suitably qualified. He realized his mistake eventually, but that point I was already serving on his ship and, well, it would have been too much of an embarrassment for him to admit he had made such a negligent mistake. We both pretended everything had been above-board.” James shrugs and sits back in his chair. “And so I was a midshipman.”

Jopson blinks at him for a long moment, then opens his mouth to speak.

“No,” James says, “we are never speaking of it again.”

Jopson cocks his head for a moment, then nods.

They’re interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and Francis returning. He stamps into the office, calling for James. He stops when he sees the two of them sitting across from one another.

“Is everything alright?”

“We were just swapping tips on unorthodox naval careers,” James says, picking up his papers again.

Jopson gets to his feet, returning to his desk. Before he settles himself back to his work he says, “I have two weeks before I have to make a final decision.”

James gives him a nod.

***

The day after the party Sophia doesn’t arrive at Francis and James’s until well into the afternoon. She feels more than a twinge of guilt about it, since there is, as ever, work to do. But even after she had been dressed and ready to depart she had found herself sitting, and turning and turning Ross’s words to her over and over in her mind. She is confident that all Francis feels for her now is friendship. But it is the accusation of how heartless she has been in the past that has lodged itself in her mind, and will not shake free. She remembers the expression on Francis’s face when she had refused to marry him the first time, and the second. And she remembers how he had looked at her, when she had asked, hand laid against his arm, if he would second her uncle on the expedition.

When she finally arrives, James greets her in the front hall. He looks troubled, and says to her, in a low voice, “I don’t want to worry Francis with this, but we need to get Jopson’s promotion moving.”

Sophia sighs. “Francis is already fretting about it I’m sure. If I had an approach that I thought would move us out of this impasse I would suggest it. But the sticking point is, as ever, Barrow, and I don’t know of anyone who has the leverage to bring him to heel.”

James shoots her a sharp look, but she’s distracted by the sight of Francis, who’s come to join them.

“Plotting something new?” he asks with a smile.

Sophia is reminded sharply of how ill Francis looked after his return from the expedition, pale, and thin and worn. It’s an image she can’t shake, despite how hale and healthy he is now. She stares at Francis for a moment too long, and it is James who has to answer him, with a casual, “Aren’t we always?”

***

Over the days after his conversation with Jopson, James feels himself teetering on the edge of a decision. Sophia had been right, that the simplest way through the issue of Jopson’s promotion was Barrow. He has the edges of a plan, but it would mean throwing out any lingering aspirations he has for his own career. Strangely, the thought of retirement does not bother him. His life now is one he enjoys, and he thinks particularly once Francis and Sophia are wed his own feelings for Francis will fade to something more appropriate.

And it galls James, the way that Jopson seems resigned to being denied his step onto the officer’s hierarchy. It bothers him that this is not something that he himself has managed to engineer yet. James is unused to not being able to use bureaucracy to get what he wants. The more he turns the idea over in his mind, the more it seems like the only option forward. Still, he doesn’t mention it to Francis or Sophia. He’s not sure his courage will hold to carry the plan through.

***

Ever since her conversation with Ross, Sophia is having a hard time focusing on her work. The same tired refrain about her heartlessness repeats itself in her mind, and the more she turns the idea over the more truth she finds in it. This morning, in the cab en route to James and Francis’s home, is no different. In an effort to keep her mind off these troubling thoughts she has taken to bringing bits of correspondence with her to read over. This time the letter she’s brought doesn’t prove to be the distraction she’s hoped. It’s mostly a light read, laudatory of their efforts. But her eye gets caught on one particular phrase: ‘loyal Captain Crozier’. Her thoughts stutter over it, because Francis is loyal of course. And then she is thinking of it again, of how she asked Francis to set forth on the expedition that almost killed him.

When she arrives, she forces her thoughts away and goes in. James is in the office, bending over some writing. There’s no sign of Francis, which likely means he is working in the office upstairs so that he doesn’t have to deal with any callers.

She greets James, who nods to her absentmindedly without looking up from his work, then settles herself down on the settee to make notes of people who have agreed to help after the speeches at the fundraiser. She focuses as much as she can on the task at hand, in the hopes it will block out her thoughts. She suddenly hears herself make a noise, and realizes it’s a sob. Tries to get herself under control, but it’s a losing battle, and then she’s weeping. James gets up abruptly, hovers over her awkwardly.

Sophia says unconvincingly, between sobs, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He sits beside her, and hands her a handkerchief uncertainly.

She dabs at her eyes with it, fighting herself back under control, until she’s just sniffling miserably, and dabbing her tears away.

James starts to speak and then stops. A long pause, then he says, “Did something happen? You needn’t speak of it if you don’t want to.”

She certainly doesn’t wish to speak of it, but after a moment she rethinks that. James knows Francis, probably better than anyone. And James is kind, but also he is honest.

“Am I being terribly cruel to him?” she asks.

“To who?” James replies.

Once Sophia starts talking, she has a hard time stopping herself. “Cruel to Francis. I asked him to go on the Expedition. I don’t think anyone knows that. I had told him I would not marry him, and broken his heart. But when the Admiralty gave the commission to my Uncle, I worried. He was sometimes… a man who seemed a little lost in command. But I trusted Francis, I thought it would have to be alright. I thought… in Van Diemen’s Land, he and Ross would come back from the season of sailing south with new adventure stories. They sounded like something from a story book. Something that you knew ended well even as you started the tale. Part of me thought this would be the same, if Francis went.”

“And I told myself he would have gone in command. So why not as a second? And I asked him to go. But the longer he was gone, the more I wondered if he would have set foot on those ships if I hadn’t asked. He’s so loyal, James. I knew he wouldn’t refuse if I asked. Did he take it as an order? Did I send him out into all that suffering? I don’t know how he can stand to look at me if that is true…” She stops speaking, running out of words. She’s never said all these things all together like this, not even to herself. She turns to look at James, who is staring at her, stricken.

“James? What is it? What do you know?”

He freezes, caught, then shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

Sophia has a terrible sinking suspicion that he knows that her fears are true. “James, please, what is it you know?”

“Please don’t ask me to break that confidence,” he says, a little desperately. That is all the confirmation Sophia needs. She jolts to her feet, ignoring the way James calls, “Sophia, wait...” after her as she bolts up the stairs in search of Francis.

Francis is sitting at his little desk upstairs, back to the door. Sophia halts on the threshold, and takes a breath before stepping inside.

“Yes?” he says distractedly, without looking up.

“Francis. I’m so sorry. About asking you to go on the Expedition, for being so unthinking, so cruel to you.” She’s wringing her hands, but she’s keeping herself enough in control that her voice is level.

Francis asks, not turning around, “Are we really having this conversation again?” He sounds a bit amused if anything, and he hasn’t stopped writing.

Sophia says, “I don’t think I apologized properly…”

“You know, I do distinctly remember having this conversation once already. I remember because it was very uncomfortable and distressing, and the only good thing about it was that once it was over and done I was never going to have the conversation again.” His voice is cavalier, and amused.

“Francis…” Sophia says, her voice breaking.

Francis must hear what’s in her voice now, because he turns in his seat to look at her, amusement falling from his face. When he sees her, eyes still red from crying, his face immediately shifts to concern, and he lurches to his feet and crosses the room to her.

“There’s nothing to forgive, I don’t blame you for anything.” He is speaking seriously now, gently. “But I forgive you, if that’s what you need to hear. For whatever it is you think you’ve done, I forgive you. Unless you were the one who convinced Lady Jane to send a monkey on the expedition. That monkey used to steal food at wardroom meetings, Sophia.”

“I’m trying to be serious. Did you go out there because of me?”

“Of course I did,” he says plainly, brow furrowed in confusion. “You asked me to.”

Hearing him say it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world is devastating. She covers her mouth with her hand.

Francis is looking concerned and confused in equal measures. “We talked about this months ago. I came to visit you, remember? What brought this on? I thought you knew this.”

“I thought I might have swayed you a little. I didn’t think you’d take it as an order, to go out and die,” she manages to say.

“Was my dying in the North really the intent?” Francis asks.

“Of course not,” she says, wiping fresh tears from her face.

“I mean, I’m aware the prospect of my making a third proposal was decidedly unpalatable. And actually shooting me in the street would be a bit gauche, for a woman of your station. So no one could really blame you if you tried to murder me more discreetly.”

“You are not funny,” Sophia says firmly. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“I’m not? Is that why you’re smiling?”

She realizes that she is, in fact, smiling. “You’re not charming either.”

Francis grins at her. “No one has accused me of that particular sin, no.” His mirth fades. “What brought this on, Sophy?”

“I hadn’t realized you had taken my words as an order. I’ve long thought what I’d done might be unforgiveable. And to find out that others agreed with that sentiment…”

“Who spoke to you?” He asks intently. “Was it James?”

“Yes.”

“I can hardly credit that he would be that cruel to you.”

“Oh no, no.” Sophia says quickly, realizing his confusion. “Not our James. Sir James Ross. Don’t be angry with him, I can hardly blame him for having affection for you, for wanting to protect you. It was just a shock to hear some of my own worst fears echoed so. And then when I came here and spoke to our James…”

“He confirmed that I had taken it as an order.”

“Please don’t think he broke your confidence, it was just the look on his face. For someone who prides himself on being able to move in society, he’s very easy to read.”

Francis smiles a bit at that. “Not to everyone. He just can’t bear to lie to the people he cares for.”

Sophia feels very warm at the idea of being on the list of people that James Fitzjames cares for. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Francis agrees.

“A good man who’s sitting alone downstairs. He’s probably convinced neither of us will speak to one another again, and it’s somehow all his fault. Shall we go and put his mind at ease?”

Francis nods, and offers her his arm to take her downstairs.

James is still sitting on the settee, looking quite stricken. His tension eases when he sees that they are both smiling.

“Now that’s sorted,” Sophia says, “let’s discuss other things. I have some more thoughts on our next steps. Francis, will you take notes?”

As Francis locates pen and paper, she sits down beside James, and leans in to murmur, “Thank you for listening.” Then she turns back to Francis and begins to explain her idea.

***

Francis sits beside Sophia and reconsiders all the choices he has made in life that has led him to this: trying to stay civil and polite while a career politician like Sir Peter Dundas complains to him about Lady Jane Franklin. The man keeps insisting on directing his words towards Francis, despite the fact that Francis is determinedly letting Sophia do all the talking.

“Don’t pretend it’s not her doing! A national shame they’re calling it! All the newspapers have picked it up. Every other day I turn around and she has that damn pet novelist of hers writing some new nonsense about how we’ve abandoned the men of the Franklin Expedition to poverty! And the public believes it!”

“Perhaps,” Francis offers, “the public feels that if you were willing to abandon the expedition in the North, had it not been for Lady Jane’s prompting, you’d be just as willing to abandon them to the poorhouse now?”

Sir Peter gapes at him like a landed fish. Under cover of shifting in her seat and moving her skirts, Sophia kicks Francis in the shin, with considerable force.

“What Sir Francis means,” she intercedes smoothly, “is that my aunt is a grief-stricken woman, trying to do what is best in memory of her dear late husband. I’m sure she doesn’t realize how extreme the position she is taking is. But perhaps, it would be more difficult for her views to gain traction if there was some sort of more reasonable pension offered? I do believe that Sidney Herbert was showing Sir Francis such a suggestion just the other day, didn’t he Francis?”

“Yes,” Francis grunts, and rises to pick up the proposal that he knows full well is the work of many late nights between Sophia, James and himself, and is Herbert’s proposal in name only.

Sir Peter looks the document over slowly. “Well, it is a sensible proposal. Herbert wants to bring it forward?”

“I think he’s very keen, he’s just concerned the motion won’t be seconded, or have enough votes to pass.”

Sir Peter hesitates, then says again, “It is sensible. I’ll speak to Herbert.”

As soon as he departs, Sophia creeps to the window to watch him go, standing behind the curtain.

“What are you doing?” Francis asks fondly.

“Waiting until he’s gone, obviously,” Sophia says. “I need to go tell Auntie how well that went, but I can’t let him see me go running off in triumph…. There, he’s gotten back in his carriage.”

She moves out of the office, calling over her shoulder to Francis, “Sorry for putting you through that, but thank you. I really thought he’d have the common decency to not arrive unannounced, and then it could have been James who took the meeting with him.”

“Sorry you had to make do with me,” Francis says, rising from his seat to follow her into the foyer.

She looks up at him sharply, before realizing he meant it in jest. “You did very well. You only said what you were thinking once, and you only occasionally looked as though you wanted to strangle him. I could hardly have asked for more.” She winks at him, throws a shawl over her shoulders, and opens the doors. She pauses on the doorstep, then turns back. “If James returns before I do, tell him whatever you like about the meeting, but make sure you also tell him that I said that it was a great success. If he only listens to your version I’m sure you’ll give the impression it was a terrible failure.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be running from the house to celebrate your great victory, instead of standing there letting a draft in?”

Sophia laughs, and leaves with an exaggerated swagger in her step.

Francis watches her go with a smile, and then goes to find Jopson. As is his wont when upper class visitors have come to call, he has taken refuge in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the little table, with a cup of tea at his elbow, scribbling in a notebook. Francis recognizes his writing as navigation practice of the sort he would be expected to perform for a portion of his Lieutenant’s exam. If asked, Jopson will claim he is resigned to the idea that the promotion will not go through. And yet, when he has a moment to himself, he practices anyway.

Jopson rises to pour him some tea. Francis takes it and sits beside him at the table.

“Terrible conversation?”

“Miserable,” Francis agrees, sipping his tea. “Sophia seems to think it went well.”

“She would know best,” Jopson says.

“Would she now? And what about me? Is my grasp on the political situation not as good as hers?”

Jopson smirks for a moment, then drinks his tea, pointedly not answering. Francis laughs.

Increasingly Francis has been aware of a curiously light feeling in his chest, something that he has only recently managed to put a name to. He is happy, he realizes. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way that it feels alien to him. But it also doesn’t feel fragile, the way his happiness in the past has felt, like something he has to desperately grasp lest it disappear into nothing. It’s partly that he is beginning to be sure that they will succeed in forcing the powers that be to do right by the surviving men. Just last week, the fundraising efforts had paid off enough that they could make payments to the next of kin of those who had not returned. With that success, his nightmares have ebbed too.

But he also knows that part of his happiness is bound up in having James and Sophia near. He’s happy to have them close to him, but equally so to see them so fond of one another, working or laughing together, heads bent close to one another. This situation should feel fleeting; surely Sophia will find someone else to wed, and surely James will find some better friend. Both will find this life with Francis insufficient eventually. But these worries feel like instinctive grooves from unhappier times, and his thoughts skip easily out of them.

***

James has only been in Barrow’s office a handful of times. The last time had been in 1845, discussing who would lead the search for the Northwest Passage. The memory of his old self, naïve and overconfident, is something James has to fight himself not to dwell on. His heart is pounding, and he is sweating in his dress uniform. Confronting this old man, and the thought of all the good will and positioning he is about to burn in one brutal sally, is taking all the courage he has to go through with. Despite his worry, he keeps the casual smile on his face, and ease in his manner. Barrow certainly appears to be taken in by it, as he opens the conversation with a warm and paternal air, gently chiding James on the trouble his advocacy for the men will cause for his career. It’s a gentle warning, but with a hint of menace behind it, and in times past it would have been enough to make James promise to mend his ways.

Today, though, James just smiles placidly as Barrow says again, “The commitment is very admirable of course. But they’re not your men anymore, not now they’re on shore. And you’d do better to think of your career.”

“I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about my future,” James says. “And I’m not here to talk about pensions.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Barrow says. “Well, there are many interesting commands for a man of your experience. Particularly if you’d be willing to help us tamp down this public nonsense about pensions for the expedition men.”

James holds up his hand. “I’m not here to talk about my career, either.” He has that same feeling as the moment battle begins, the fear dropping away now that the moment to act is upon him. “I was rather hoping you could assist me with another matter. For some reason, the Admiralty just will not let Thomas Jopson take his Lieutenant’s exam. I understand an unwillingness to directly confirm him to Lieutenant, but what possible harm could there be in letting him take the exam? If he’s suitable, he’ll pass.”

Barrow’s warm smile has dropped away. “The steward. Of course he won’t be allowed to take the exam,” he says coldly. “This is exactly the kind of foolishness that will do irreparable harm to your career if you keep pursing it.”

“Oh, I’ve decided to retire,” James replies, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been advised that I should write my memoirs. It’s always difficult to decide where to start something like that. But, on reflection, I think the public would be particularly interested in my path to being appointed to the expedition. So that means I have to start the tale in Singapore.”

Barrow’s face is turning a furious shade of red. James looks him in the eye and smiles. No going back now.

“That kind of slander would never go anywhere. No one would believe you.”

“Perhaps not,” James says. “I think the more likely outcome is that everyone delights in the gossip, and you would spend your declining years being whispered about by every single person in polite society. And then, how long until the politicians start to wonder how many of your other decisions in your long career were made to keep someone quiet? Slander it might be, but that’s the sort of thing that defines a legacy, don’t you think?”

“What do you want?” Barrow snarls at him.

“I thought I was quite clear. Thomas Jopson gets to take his exam. A fair chance for him to earn his promotion. And I don’t write my memoirs.”

“Fine,” Barrow replies. “But you are finished, you’ll never get another command.”

James laughs, and to his surprise it’s a real laugh. “Oh, I plan to enjoy my retirement. There’s no position you could offer me that I would accept. I’ll expect the letter inviting Mr. Jopson to take his exam to be in his hands no later than Friday.”

James waits for Barrow’s stiff nod, then gets to his feet and makes his exit. As he steps out into the street he realizes he is shaking, the sour taste of fading adrenaline in his mouth. He feels almost giddy with the success.

He hails a cab, and returns home. The feeling of success stays with him, and he’s grinning when he returns home. He knows Francis is out, visiting Ross, and won’t be back until late, but Sophia is bent over paperwork. She looks up at him.

“You look delighted. Good news from your contact?” she asks. He had avoided mentioning Barrow to either Francis or Sophia, not wanting to raise their hopes, not quite sure he would have the courage to go through with with his plan until he had been sitting before Barrow.

“Excellent news. I do believe I may have secured Mr. Jopson a chance to take his Lieutenant’s exam at last.”

“However did you manage that?” she asks.

“Oh, let me keep my secrets,” He replies, dropping onto the settee. He feels light and happy, with the glow of success. “But it’s wonderful, isn’t it? I think we’re actually going to manage it. Everything we set out to do.”

“Well, let’s not count our chickens,” Sophia says, smiling. “But I think you might be right.”

“I’m sure once we’ve succeeded Francis will propose again. I’m sure that’s the only reason he’s waiting,” he tells her confidently, wanting her to share in his golden vision of the future, a life on shore, Francis and Sophia wed and happy, himself a trusted companion to them.

Sophia gives a peal of laughter at that. “That can’t possibly be worrying you, can it? He’s not going to propose to me. You can’t imagine I’m a threat to your relationship.”

James stares at her in horror, a fear which she misinterprets, placing a hand on his arm, “Don’t worry, James, you’ve both been very circumspect. I wouldn’t suspect a thing, except… well, I know what Francis looks like when he’s in love.”

James grabs her hand in both of his. “It’s nothing like that, Sophia, he doesn’t feel anything like that for me. He is very dear to me but…”

Sophia places her free hand over James’s. “It’s alright, James. I shouldn’t have said anything. But you needn’t deny it. I thought you realized I knew about you and Francis?”

James feels the panic rising. He had not realized he was being this obvious, and he is horrified at the thought that his unwanted feelings might have come between Sophia and Francis.

“There is nothing between me and Francis beyond friendship, I swear that to you,” he says. “On my side, I will not deny that my feelings go deeper than that, but he is blameless. I would never speak of it, much less act on it. It was only that… strange thoughts and feelings come to you when you think you are dying very far from home. If it helps, think of it as yet another sickness I brought back. Or a habit that I should never have brought back to England.” He says the last bit almost to himself, thinking back to a far-off conversation with Francis on _Terror_.

Sophia says with a knowing smile, “I think we bring certain habits wherever we go.”

James recoils from her, pulling his hands from hers, realizing that is not a private joke between him and Francis after all. He hunches in on himself, then says miserably, “Yes, that has proved true. But Francis is utterly devoted to you, you needn’t fear for his constancy. Especially not with the likes of me.”

When he dares a look at Sophia she is staring at him, not with understanding as he had hoped, but rather with clear confusion.

“I’m sorry,” James goes on, “that I cannot seem to rid myself of my feelings for him. But I wish nothing but happiness for you both. I will leave the house if that sets you more at ease, I could stay with my brother. But Francis will propose to you again, and soon. I’m sure of it.”

To James’s shock, Sophia starts laughing, and he flinches back from her. The mockery shocks him in its uncharacteristic cruelty. Sophia immediately sobers, seeing the look on her face.

“No, James. It’s just that I know Francis isn’t going to propose again.”

“He will,” James insists, “I’m surprised he hasn’t already. He loves you.”

“Not anymore,” she replies calmly. “I asked him to take me back, months and months ago. He told me he was in love with someone else. I rather gathered it was with you. Have you two really just been mooning after one another this whole time? I’d have expected both of you to be more decisive.” She has an amused, slightly bitter twist to her lips, but she says with a sincerity he can’t believe is feigned, “He loves you, James. He doesn’t care for me like that anymore.”

“Sophia, you’re wrong,” James says, desperate for her to believe him. “I’m not blind. I have seen the way he looks at you.” He thinks of Francis turning to Sophia whenever she enters the room, watching her wherever she goes, the softness in his eyes when he looks at her.

Sophia gets to her feet abruptly and starts to pace, gesturing broadly in her frustration. “And I’ve seen the way he looks at you, James. What was between us is over, and I have made my peace with it. I don’t think love could survive what I did to him. I sent him out on a journey that could have been his death. I broke his heart. Twice. You and Francis have grown close from shared suffering I cannot understand.”

“You are mistaken,” James replies forcefully. “He does not blame you for that, nor should he. You have been nothing but constant to him, working for his safety from so far away. He loves you, as well he should. There is nothing proper that could be between Francis and me. I may wish it, but that is only because I am a weak and selfish creature. Francis is fond of me, and he puts up with me, because he’s loyal, past the point of all sense.” To his horror James realizes that he is close to tears.

“Oh, it’s not mere loyalty, I don’t know how you can be so foolish.”

James realizes he cannot bear any more of this. “Stop, please,” he says.

Sophia looks at him closely, and the frustration on her face subsides into sympathy. “James…” she says softly, reaching a hand towards him.

“Just leave me be,” he snaps at her.

“Of course,” she says, pulling her hand back. “Of course. Please forgive me for bringing the matter up.”

He looks away from her, and there’s the rustle of her skirts as she goes to leave the room. But he hears her pause on the threshold and after a moment she says, “I wish you wouldn’t be so cruel to yourself, James. You are a very good man.”

He doesn’t answer, and she sighs, and withdraws.

***

Reeling a little from the conversation with James, Sophia returns to her rooms. She sits at the window and stares out, letting her racing thoughts replay that awful conversation with James over and over in her head. The misery in his expression. The way he seemed utterly convinced of Francis’s affection for her. She was so sure Francis was in love with James. But James knows Francis so well, and is convinced Francis is in love with her. She turns the idea over in her mind, remembering that almost-proposal she made to Francis all those months ago. Thinking his words through now, she realizes she had reached the wrong conclusions, as much as James had. And she thinks of James too. Thinks of the look in his eyes when he smiles at her, the feeling of being in his arms when they had danced.

***

James sits frozen in his seat after Sophia has left, while the evening grows later. His thoughts are erratic and confused, but he cannot escape the thought that there has been a terrible misunderstanding on Sophia’s part, and he must convince Francis to explain to her why she is mistaken, since she would not listen to James. His rosy idea of the future feels like it is fraying, and that future should be exactly what Francis wants as well, his chance at happiness.

By the time Francis returns home, night has fallen, and James is still sitting in the unlit office. Francis calls his name from the front door.

“In here,” James calls back.

“Are you sitting in the dark?” Francis’s voice is amused. He lights the lamps, then falters when he sees James’s expression. “James? What’s wrong?”

James says tonelessly, “Sophia thinks you don’t love her.”

Francis stares at James for several seconds, blinking. “What?” he manages at last.

“I think it might be my fault,” James says. “I think I should have made myself stay further away from you. I know my feelings may have been obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to me she could misread you so badly.”

Francis is standing stock still, unmoving.

“It’s ludicrous, I know. But she is convinced, and stubborn in her belief. You’ll have to reassure her.”

“Reassure her about what?” Francis’s voice is very low.

“That you love her. That you’ll marry her, and start the life together that you’ve wanted for so long. And you must tell her that you harbour no improper feelings for me.”

“I’m not going to lie to her,” Francis says, shaking his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. James looks at him in shock. He cannot believe what Francis seems to be confessing, cannot believe that he has misread Francis’s feelings for Sophia so badly. His love had been obvious on his face whenever she was near.

“I am not going to propose to her again,” Francis continues. “It wouldn’t be fair, given that my heart is not entirely hers.”

And now James understands, because of course Francis loves Sophia. And of course he has found some way to sabotage his own happiness, by concocting some barrier to that love with whatever scraps of affection he feels for James. It is the more painful, because it almost feels like Francis is offering James everything he would have once wanted. It makes it harder for James.

“I have never said a word asking for anything but friendship from you,” James says, aware that his voice is shaking.

“Of course you didn’t,” Francis says. His voice is calm. “Nevertheless it is a fact that I love you. I am sorry if it is an unwelcome one.”

James covers his face with his hands briefly. “It’s not unwelcome. Though I do wish you’d left it unsaid, or lied about it. It can come to nothing, Francis, you know that.”

“Could we not continue as we are?” Francis asks wretchedly.

“And what?” James says, exhausted by Francis’s inability to grasp the basics of how society functions, the way James has to protect him from himself. “Risk having Sophia scorned from all society? She’s already skirting the very bounds of propriety with her constant presence here and you know it. No, that’s beyond foolish. We’re not the first two men to feel something we shouldn’t, and we wouldn’t be the first to let that feeling go.”

“James,” Francis says, then stops, at a loss for words.

“I never meant to get in the way of your happiness,” James says. “Would it be easier if I were not here?” He’s suddenly very aware that he has cut off his true escape: there’s no ship’s command for him now, there’s no taking back his words to Barrow, and he is well and truly trapped on land. But still, some distance can only help to let Francis get over this foolishness.

“Please don’t go,” Francis says, sounding stricken. “Not unless doing so would make you happy. It will not make a difference to my love for you.”

“Stop it,” James says tiredly. “Whatever you feel for me, you love Sophia, as you should.”

“I love you as well. You may not wish it, or think my regard worth having, but I do love you, James.” Francis says, taking a step towards him.

“That may be, but you love Sophia. Being parted from her would cause you pain.” He looks at Francis. “If that’s not true than tell me so.”

Francis is silent for a long moment. “I can’t tell you that,” he says finally.

James nods. “I know you can’t. So marry her, and love her. You could be happy with her, Francis. Safely happy.”

“I don’t think I can be happy without you.” Francis says wretchedly, reaching for James, but James evades his hand. He leaves the room, goes up to his bedroom, closes the door, and then sinks down against it. After a few moments he hears the creak of the stairs under Francis’s feet. He hears Francis pause for a long moment outside James’s door, then cross the hall to his own room.

***

The next morning Sophia arrives at the house, and lets herself into the office. Francis is sitting in the office alone, writing with such a feverish intensity that she worries he’s going to break his pen.

Francis sits up from where he has hunched over his work. He looks tired and worn, in a way she has not seen in a long time.

She drags a chair close to him and sits. She had planned to speak him to him about what she had realized last night, but he looks so unexpectedly exhausted and troubled that she hesitates.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Not exactly. James and I had a conversation last night. I think he may have finally realized….” His words grind to a halt.

After a few moments, when its clear he won’t continue unprompted, she says, “Realized what?”

“What you already know. That I am difficult to love. Best suited only to be alone, really.”

“I don’t think that. Besides, you’re not alone. I’m here, aren’t I? And James will be, too. I don’t think he’d go far from you if he had any choice in the matter.” She reaches out, covers one of his hands with hers. She feels him startle at the contact, and he looks up at her, then down at their hands. “I’m sorry if I made you think that about yourself.”

Francis is holding himself very still as though he’s afraid if he moves she’ll stop touching him. “I wish you’d stop apologizing to me for things that aren’t your fault,” he says

“Alright,” Sophia says slowly, “I’ll apologize for something that is my fault, then. I’m sorry I didn’t hear you when I asked you if you still loved me. You’ve always been honest with me, but that’s only helpful if I actually listen.” When he doesn’t respond she continues, “Could we perhaps try that conversation again? You said your feelings had changed. I thought you meant you weren’t in love with me anymore, but that’s not what you meant at all, is it? I need to know, I can’t keep guessing and hoping: do you still love me, Francis?”

“Of course. I don’t think I could do otherwise.” He takes a shaky breath. “But it is not as easy as that, Sophia…”

“Because you love James as well,” Sophia says.

Francis looks gutted. “I am so sorry that I am not entirely yours.”

Sophia interrupts him with a delighted laugh. She’s feeling almost giddy at the confession. “Now you’re the one apologizing needlessly. No, no, there’s no need. He’s very charming, and very handsome. And a good, kind man, too. I must say you have exceptionally good taste when you fall in love.” She winks at him, but Francis is just starting at her blankly.

More seriously, she says, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re probably going to have to approach James. I know he’s normally a man of action, but he’s very much in his own head about this.” Francis continues to stare at her. “I obviously don’t blame him; it’s not simple for you two to admit such things. But again, that’s why you have to help him a little.” She offers him a quick smile.

Francis seems to be struggling to find his words. He tries to withdraw his hand from hers, but she holds tight. He could probably get away from her, but he stops trying almost immediately.

“What is it?”

“I don’t understand,” Francis says softly.

“It’s quite simple. You love me, as ardently as ever, yes?”

“Yes. But…”

“Yes or no answers only please.”

“Yes,” Francis says without hesitation.

“As much as when you asked me to marry you.”

“Which time?”

She considers the question for a moment. “Either. Both?”

“Yes.”

“But you love James as well, and will not be parted from him.”

Francis is silent.

“Yes or no Francis,” she says.

“Yes,” He whispers.

“Well then, I see no reason why you should be parted from him. I have never found your affection wanting, and you say that has not changed. And now you love him as well. So love him. He loves you too, and as far as I can tell, all he wants is your happiness. I’m not asking you to choose between us.”

Francis is staring at her, like he’s never seen her before. But he’s clasping her hand, tightly.

“But James...”

“You need to speak to him. Try to speak plainly. And soon, I’m sure he’s tying himself in knots about this. Where is he?”

“He’s gone to his brother’s,” Francis says miserably.

“When has the prospect of a disapproving relative been enough to frighten you off?” She waits for him to smile. “Take some time, plan what you want to say to him, then go. I can finish up what you’re working on.”

***

James is exhausted. He had barely slept the night before, turning the conversation with Francis in his mind over and over, and his early departure from the home he shared with Francis had been painful, not least because of the wounded expression on his face as James had left.

Once he arrived at his brother’s, he had had to fend off Will and Elizabeth’s worried enquires into the reason for his leaving his residence. Thankfully they had taken the hint of James’s short answers quickly enough, and turned the conversation instead to inconsequential things, and then left him to his silence.

James had spent the rest of the morning, and into the afternoon, sitting morosely by the window, valiantly trying to read a novel. He’s made not a single page of progress when one of the servants comes to tell him that Sir Francis Crozier is in the front hall.

“Tell him I’m not receiving visitors,” James says.

The servant hesitates than says, “Sir Francis said if that was the case I should inform you that he needs to speak to you regarding Thomas Jopson.”

James curses, the thought of a more prolonged fight with Barrow filling him dread. After a moment he says he will see Francis in the garden, the place their conversation is least likely to be overheard.

Out in the unseasonably warm sunlight of early spring, James paces back and forth, until Francis enters the garden. Francis looks more drawn and worn than he had that morning, James feels a pang of pain at that, sharper for knowing that he is the cause. They stare at one another without speaking.

“Jopson?” James finally prompts when the silence has dragged on for far too long.

“Yes. Yes.” Francis fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out an opened letter. “Jopson brought it by late this morning.”

James takes the letter, and reads it. He’s expecting some new set-back, and it takes him a moment to realize that he is reading a standard Admiralty letter giving the date of Jopson’s Lieutenant’s exam, in two days' time. James reads it twice to make sure he’s not missing something, then hands it back to Francis.

“I don’t see the problem?”

“No. It’s excellent news. Jopson is beside himself with worry, but he’ll do well.”

“Of course he will.” James says. “But if it’s good news, then why are you here, Francis?”

Francis gives him a searching look, then nods. “You’re not surprised. I thought that might be the case. It was you, wasn’t it? You approached Barrow.”

“Of course it was. And I’m sure you can guess what it took to convince him.”

“James, your career...” Francis starts.

“You of all people don’t get to lecture me on the politicking needed to advance in the damned navy,” James replies in exasperation. “Believe me, it was carefully thought out. I’ve resolved to retire. I thought my _surplus of political luck_ could be used for some good.”

“Well, thank you,” Francis says.

“I didn’t do it for you,” James says. He pauses, then adds more truthfully, “I didn’t do it entirely for you. Jopson will make a fine officer.”

“He will,” Francis agrees.

“Is that all?” James asks, on the slim hope that he won’t have to suffer another agonizing conversation about the feelings between him and Francis, and that Francis will have the sense to let him go.

But of course Francis is too stubborn for that. “You know it’s not all I came to say.” Francis says.

“I suppose I do.” James feels another wave of exhaustion. “Well, say what you’ve come to say.”

“Thank you for hearing me out. I need the chance to try to explain this again,” Francis says very earnestly. He is speaking slowly, careful with his words, and his hands show his tension, clenched white-knuckled in his lap. “I love Sophia. I do. But it is equally true that I love you. And whatever else my love might be, it is not something that can be uprooted or excised. I have loved Sophia for years and years, and nothing, not refusal, nor heartbreak, nor distance could change that. My love for you will be as stubborn, I fear. If it will truly make you more content to leave, then I will accept that. But don’t leave for my sake. I will not stop loving you.”

And of course Francis would speak like that, James thinks. Bravely and with no mention or care of what society will think. He loves him for it, and hates him for it. There was a time when it would have been enough to sway him, but now he knows he cannot ruin the happiness of two people he cares for so greatly. So he forces himself to say: “Sophia.”

Francis nods. “Yes. Sophia. She suggested that perhaps…well. Perhaps that I did not have to choose between you. That she would be willing to accept a rather more…unusual arrangement. Between the three of us.”

“And is that something you would want?”

“I can think of nothing I’d like more,” Francis replies.

When James doesn’t reply, Francis’s face falls. “Of course it’s a difficult suggestion, and something you might have no wish to be involved in.”

James is trying to grapple with the idea. He can imagine it, it’s so close to what he’s been wishing for: Sophia and Francis happy, and him near them. But this vision has him drawn in to their embrace, rather than merely orbiting their lives. He wants it so badly that he doesn’t trust himself to evaluate the offer in the moment. It seems a terrible risk. He wishes Sophia was here so he could talk it out with her. While Francis can be a starry-eyed fool sometimes, he cannot quite believe that Sophia would be so foolish as to think this viable.

“Francis,” James says. “I don’t know. I need a little time.”

Francis nods, and withdraws, leaving James to his thoughts. He thinks of Sophia bent over her letters, charming a politician, smiling up at him, the way she fit in his arms when they danced. He thinks of Francis, his gap-toothed smile, the breadth of his shoulders, the solid strength of him. And James wants, and wants, and wants.

***

Two days later, in the mid-afternoon, James returns home. When he enters the house he finds Jopson, Sophia and Francis in the sitting room. Jopson is pale with nerves, as is Francis. Sophia is hiding it better, but James can tell from the way she is fidgeting, every so slightly, that she is fretting as well. All three of them turn to look at him in surprise when he enters.

“James,” Francis says his tone a little wary, a little hopeful. “You’re back.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let Jopson go to his exam today without wishing him well.” James replies. He extends his hand to Jopson, and shakes it. “It’s well deserved, and you’ll do just fine.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jopson says.

Once Jopson departs for the examination, Francis begins to pace. Sophia throws James a look, and begins to urge James to tell her more and more ridiculous stories. It serves its purpose of distracting Francis, and James enjoys the challenge of trying, and succeeding in, getting Francis to laugh. James realizes he had missed them quite terribly in the days he was away.

When Jopson returns, dazed and happy, and flushed with his success, Francis embraces him, overjoyed. After a round of congratulations, Sophia gently suggests that Francis take Jopson for a celebratory meal.

After they have departed, James and Sophia sit together on the settee and talk aimlessly for a while, about society gossip and fashion. James appreciates that Sophia lets him, though there’s the weight in the air of things that need to be said.

At last Sophia says, “Are we going to keep dancing around this, or do you want to speak your mind?”

“Francis seems to believe…” James steels himself. “That he loves us both equally. And that that is something you’re willing to accept.”

He searches her face for any sign of disbelief, but she just smiles, and nods.

“I feel I must repeat how much I do not wish to come between you,” James says. “I could not bear it if I was the cause of any sadness for either of you.”

“Is it really so hard to believe,” she replies, softly enough that he has to lean in to hear her, “that I wish for nothing but happiness for you as well? I care for you greatly, James. I think in time I might come to love you. Which may not be welcome, I understand. This whole thing would be a rather unorthodox arrangement, and you may not be willing to be party to it...”

“I care for you as well,” James says. “It is only that it is a great risk to your reputations that you and Francis would be running, and for what?”

“For what?” Sophia says, reaching out a hand to lay it on his cheek. “It would be for you.”

Her eyes are very earnest, and very blue, and he wants very badly what she is offering. Part of him is expecting to be rebuffed as he leans forward and kisses her, a soft press of his lips against her mouth. Distantly, he is aware it’s not his best effort, hesitant enough to be almost chaste, but still Sophia leans into him eagerly, deepening the kiss.

He makes a sound of surprise against her mouth. She kisses with a bold self-assurance, and James realizes she has kissed Francis like this in times past. The thought sends a bolt of desire through him and he puts his arms around her, pulling her closer. He loses himself to the sensation of the kiss, hardly registering the sound of the front door opening, until he hears Francis calling, “Anyone home?”

James pulls back slightly from Sophia and they stare at each one another for a moment. She grins at him, eyes sparkling. It takes James a moment to find his voice and reply, “We’re in here.”

Sophia still has her hand on his face, and his arms are around her. There’s a moment when they could draw apart, but neither of them move. He hears Francis’s footsteps, hears him pause on the threshold, a sharp intake of breath. James turns to Francis, who looks hesitant, but with the start of something like hope on his face.

“Well, I think I’ve done enough thinking on the matter,” James says, and reaches out a hand towards Francis.

Francis takes the hand, lets himself be drawn forward, drops to his knees in front of them. James feels that familiar surge of love and want at the sight of him, and then realizes there is no need to pretend he feels otherwise. He leans forward and kisses Francis. Francis’s mouth opens against his, and his hand tightens around James’s. James feels a surge of happiness, at Francis before him, the feel of Sophia leaning into his side. When he draws back, Francis is staring back at him in wonder, eyes wide. James smiles at him. Sophia reaches out a hand, tilts Francis’s face towards her, and kisses him as well, deeply and with familiarity. Watching them, James lifts Francis’s hand in his, and kisses the back of it. He is full of wonder that the pair of them are something he gets to keep.

***

Following the vote approving pensions for the surviving men, Lady Jane hosts a party. Francis had hoped that the fact that it was mostly celebratory would mean he could be excused, but Sophia and James had shot him twin looks of outrage at the suggestion that he might not go. That might not have been enough to convince Francis, but Jopson had also been invited, and had given him a terrified look when Francis had grumbled about not attending.

Francis has adopted his usual technique for these kinds of events, which involves finding a secluded corner, and glowering at the room in general. Jopson, looking stiff and awkward in his new Lieutenant’s dress uniform, had started the evening staying close to Francis’s side. Trying to disappear into the background is a move that has always served him well as a steward, but is faintly ridiculous in the glittering dress uniform. Fortunately, after a short while James had taken pity on Jopson and introduced him to a group of other young naval men, who had accepted him as one of their own with cheerful good nature. Francis watches as Jopson loses his panicked tension, and starts to look as though he might almost be enjoying himself.

This leaves Francis alone in his corner, which is ideal. As a matter of principle he tries to keep up his dour expression, but he’s hard pressed to do so. James and Sophia, who both to seem determined to dance with as many people as possible, keep darting over to his corner to speak and joke with him whenever they need to catch their breath. Towards the end of the evening Ross joins him.

“Party not as terrible as you expected?” Ross asks.

“I’m hating every minute of it,” Francis says, aware he is smiling, as across the room, James makes an elaborate bow to Sophia, and then leads her onto the dance floor. When the music starts and they begin to dance he catches first Sophia’s eyes over James shoulder, and then as they twirl away, James’s eyes over Sophia’s head, each of them seeking out his gaze with every turn.

“You seem happy,” Ross says.

“Do you know, I think I am,” Francis says thoughtfully.

“I thought you said you didn’t have the disposition for it?” Ross asks.

Francis, watching James and Sophia laugh together as they dance, says, “Sometimes I say very foolish things.”

***

When they finally return home after the party, Sophia sits on the bed in Francis’s room, and kicks off her shoes with a sigh of relief. James is removing his epaulettes, and gently chiding Francis for not dancing with her. Francis is mock scowling at him.

Sophia waves a hand at James, causally. “It doesn’t matter, I’ve danced with Francis plenty in the past, James.”

“So you do dance!” James says triumphantly, wheeling on Francis, who has shed his jacket, and is down to his shirt sleeves.

“If I must,” Francis says, with a shrug.

“He even danced with Ross at an Antarctic ball, or so I heard,” Sophia adds.

“With Ross!” James replies, with false outrage. But also, Sophia thinks, with a hint of something like jealousy under it.

“It was for the morale of the men,” Francis replies.

“I think James’s morale is low,” Sophia says cheerfully. Her feet hurt from dancing, and she’s exhausted. She doesn’t know how James, who danced as much as she did, isn’t as tired as she is, but she’s starting to know what James looks like when he wants something he doesn’t think he can ask for.

“Oh, is that so?” Francis replies, amused. “Perhaps you’re right.” He turns and makes a bow to James. “Will you do me the honour of a dance?”

James, to Sophia’s surprise, blushes, but then, with a radiant smile, agrees.

“Don’t look so pleased,” Sophia tells James helpfully, “he’s going to step on your toes.” She is almost immediately proved right, but James doesn’t seem to mind, as he and Francis dance together around the bedroom’s small circle of open floor.

**Author's Note:**

> James's story about how he got appointed to midshipman is an altered (and simplified!) version of actual events: the complete version can be found in W. Battersby’s biography on James Fitzjames. The idea for the scene where Jopson and Fitzjames discuss those events came from the excellent tags on this tumblr post: [ https://paramaline.tumblr.com/post/185023926851](https://paramaline.tumblr.com/post/185023926851)
> 
> The title is taken from the Weakerthans song ‘Our Retired Explorer (Dines With Michel Foucault in Paris, 1961)’


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